RUNNINGHORSEINN 

A  NOVEL 


4  . 


ALFBED  TBESIDDER  SHEPPABD 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN 


p 


THE    MUG    SLIPPED    BETWEEN    THEM,    AND    CRASHED    TO    PIECES    ON     THE 

FLOOR." 

f»l>  23- 


RUNNING 
HORSE    INN 


BY 


Alfred  Tresidder  Sheppard 


With  Illustrations  in  Color  by 
EDWIN   F.  BAYHA 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.   B.   LIPPINCOTT   COMPANY 

1907 


Copyright,  IBM,  by  ALFRED  TXEBIDDKR  SRKPFJRD 
Copyright,  1007,  by  J.  B.  Lirmrcorr  COMPANY 


Publiihed  May  1907 


Electratyptd  and  printtd  by  J.  B.   Lippincott   Caut^any 
Tkt  Washington  Squart  Prttt,  t'kilcuitiphia,  U.  S.  A. 


TO  MY  FATHER 


2138192 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"THE  Muo  SLIPPED  BETWEEN  THEM,  AND  CRASHED  TO 

PIECES  ON  THE  FLOOR  " Frontispiece.       23 

"•'THE    SUN    SANK   IN    JUST   LIKE   THAT  —  SUDDENLY, 

GEORGE — ON  THE  NIGHT  YOUR  MOTHER  DIED".     150 

"  HALT  !  HALT  ! "  HE  ORDERED  . .  247 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN 


CHAPTER   I 

AN  ostler,  with  a  red  face  and  a  red  waistcoat,  straw- 
coloured  breeches,  and  a  straw  to  match  them 
tucked  in  the  corner  of  a  wide,  twisted  mouth,  flung 
the  last  drops  of  water  from  his  bucket  over  the 
wheels  of  the  Margate  coach.  George  Kennett  wondered 
if  this  were  the  lad  whose  ears  had  tingled  once  under 
his  father's  hand.  How  well  he  remembered  that 
drowsy  summer  afternoon,  so  long  ago!  A  little,  dreamy, 
queer-tempered  boy,  George  had  trotted  by  his  father's 
side  through  the  crowded  Butter  Market  and  among 
the  hucksters'  stalls  set  against  the  very  walls  of 
the  Cathedral;  his  feet  had  clattered  noisily  through 
those  dim  aisles  where  the  years  have  stored  so  many 
memories.  "  Doan't  shuffle,  George.  That's  where  Becket 
was  killed;  you've  heard  tell  of  him?  Hold  your  head  up; 
I  reckon  that's  the  tenth  time  I've  had  to  tell  'ee.  They 
covered  his  tomb  all  over  with  jewels  and  gimcracks,  and 
silly  folk  who  didn't  know  no  better  flocked  to  Canter- 
bury thinking  his  old  bones  would  save  'em.  The  monks 
pretended  they  had  a  bit  of  Aaron's  rod  too,  and  some  of 
the  red  earth  God  made  Adam  out  of.  That's  what 
Popery  brings  people  to.  How  many  more  times  am  I 
going  to  tell  you  to  hold  your  head  up?" 

"What  happened  to  the  jewels,  feyther?     Were  they 
stolen?" 


12  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

"I  reckon  so.  They  kept  a  watchman  to  look  after 
them,  and  dogs " 

"Dogs?     What  kind  of  dogs,  feyther?" 

"Bulldogs — I  doan't  know.      Can't  you  walk  quicker?" 

They  had  come  at  last  to  the  very  inn  where  the  coach 
was  now  standing;  in  this  very  yard,  John  Kennett, 
emptying  a  last  tankard  while  his  horse  was  being  put 
between  the  shafts,  had  boxed  the  stable  lad's  ears  for  some 
clumsiness  which  jerked  his  arm  and  spilt  his  liquor. 
George  remembered  the  lad's  big,  twisted  mouth.  And 
his  father's  voice — loud,  peremptory,  so  ready  to  chide,  to 
moralise,  to  contradict — he  could  almost  hear  it  again  on 
this  summer  afternoon;  though  it  was  more  than  seven 
years  since  he  had  heard  it  last,  and  five  since  any  one  in 
this  wide  world  had  heard  it. 

The  driver  bunched  up  his  reins.  One  or  two  new  passen- 
gers had  clambered  to  their  places.  Few  were  left  now  of 
those  who  had  started  that  morning  from  the  Bricklayers' 
Arms.  The  soldier,  whose  bragging  about  Waterloo  had 
impressed  all  save  George,  had  just  nodded  a  self-confident 
good-day;  a  glimpse  of  his  swaggering  young  back  showed 
scarlet  now  and  then,  among  carts  and  people  in  the  busy 
High  Street.  George  thought  of  Crawfurd's  march  to  Tal- 
avera,  and  the  few  leagues  of  Belgian  mud  which  this  lad, 
fresh  from  the  plough-tail,  had  covered;  of  Ciudad,  and 
Badajoz,  and  all  the  stiff  fighting  that  Toulouse  finished, 
and  that  single  day  of  bloodshed  round  the  farmsteads 
and  in  the  rye-fields  of  Brabant.  Those  few  fierce  hours  had 
won  the  lad  his  chevron.  George  remembered,  rather 
bitterly,  the  private's  tunic  stripped  from  him  in  the  way- 
side cottage  near  Toulouse.  A  headful  of  memories,  a 
bundle  to  be  lifted  with  one  hand — these  were  his  spoils 
and  his  rewards. 

He  swung  himself  into  his  place  on  the  coach;  the  ostler 
stepped  aside;  the  whip  cracked;  the  horn  sounded  merrily. 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  13 

They  rattled  out  of  Canterbury.  Every  yard  of  the 
way  now  was  familiar  ground.  At  Sturry  he  alighted, 
and  waited  until  the  coach,  half-hidden  in  dust,  was 
far  down  the  Margate  road.  As  his  journey's  end 
grew  nearer  he  felt  a  strange  reluctance  to  arrive.  For  a 
few  minutes  he  loitered  on  the  bridge,  watching  the  white 
foam  flooding  through  the  mill-wheel,  and  the  swirl  of 
glassy  water.  His  eyes  followed  the  miller's  man,  face  and 
clothes  and  hands  powdered  white,  as  he  went  slowly 
about  his  work;  the  clink,  clink  of  the  smithy  was  in  his 
ears;  it  seemed  as  if  the  task  in  progress  years  back  was 
still  unfinished.  John  and  Bessie  and  he  had  crossed  it  on 
that  memorable  day  when,  playing  truant,  they  had  taken 
the  boat  from  the  tiny  quay  at  Fordwich,  and  pulled 
through  the  image  of  the  ancient  little  town-hall  which  the 
water  had  shown  for  seven  hundred  years,  and  passed  under 
the  ducking  stool,  and  stuck  among  the  reeds,  while  the 
cattle  collected  at  the  river's  edge  to  watch  them,  with 
large,  solemn  eyes.  The  three  pairs  of  sturdy  little  legs 
had  crossed  the  bridge  again  at  eventide,  taking  their 
owners  back  reluctantly  to  birchings  and  supperless  beds. 

The  years  of  childhood  and  of  manhood  seemed  to  close 
together,  all  that  lay  between  forgotten — wiped  out — 
those  images  of  death,  of  horror,  of  unbridled  license, 
cleansed  from  his  life,  like  figures  from  a  slate.  He  roused 
himself  reluctantly.  This  pleasant  countryside  of  streams 
and  orchards  and  hop-fields  and  golden  corn,  the  clean  air 
blowing  in  from  the  sea,  were  already  making  him  forget. 

George  passed  on,  between  the  Blean  woods,  where, 
driving  out  to  see  the  world  on  that  autumn  evening,  he 
had  seen  the  thin  moon  dance  among  dark  tree-tops 
with  each  wild  jolting  of  the  chaise.  Everything  was 
stamped  clearly  on  his  memory:  the  nodding  plumes  and 
wisps  of  floating  colours  in  the  recruiters'  helmets  in  front 
of  him;  the  sword  sticking  like  a  tail  from  under  the  offi- 


14  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

cer's  pelisse,  which  the  half-drunken  Sergeant-Major  wore; 
the  oaths,  the  jests,  the  hiccupped  songs  as  they  drove 
madly  along  the  Canterbury  Road,  swaying,  bumping, 
zigzagging  from  hedge  to  hedge.  He  passed  cottages 
half-covered  with  honeysuckle  and  roses,  half-hidden  be- 
hind flaming  hollyhocks;  tiny  blue  eyes  of  flowers  peeped 
from  hedgerows  and  the  dim  glades  of  the  woods.  The 
great  trees  of  Strode  Park  flecked  the  white  road  with 
shadows. 

He  left  Herne  behind  him,  and  stepped  on  briskly 
towards  Eddington.  At  a  white  gate  separating  a  long, 
rutted  lane  from  the  road  he  stopped  again.  The  dull  red 
walls  of  a  farmhouse  showed  among  green  foliage.  How 
often  the  gate  had  been  a  trysting- place!  An  old  cowman, 
with  bent  back,  bowed  legs,  brown  gabardine,  was  com- 
ing slowly  down  the  lane,  like  some  pale  stag-beetle  totter- 
ing in  an  effort  to  walk  erect.  George  opened  his  mouth 
to  hail  him;  and  shut  it  again  abruptly.  Again  this  strange 
reluctance  to  get  at  once  into  touch  with  his  old  life.  He 
would  see  Bessie  soon.  It  was  at  this  gate  she  had  given 
him  her  promise.  Seven  years  ago!  She  would  be  twenty- 
three  now.  If  she  were  half  as  pretty 

He  walked  on,  planning  his  future,  promising  himself 
amendment,  happiness,  forgetfulness  of  so  much  in  the 
past  years  from  which  his  mind  turned  with  horror  and 
loathing  and  miserable  surprise.  At  last  the  sea-wind 
caught  him  full  in  the  face,  and  the  road  dipped  abruptly 
through  sloping  fields  dotted  with  sheep  to  blue  water. 

He  stood  and  looked  at  sky  and  sea  in  delight.  Not  a 
cloud;  not  a  crease  of  foam  in  all  the  vast  sheet  of  blue 
stretching  to  the  fainter  blue  of  the  horizon.  Away  to  the 
right,  deceptively  near,  rose  the  battered  towers  of  Reculver, 
at  the  end  of  the  long  ridge  of  downs.  He  turned  to  the 
left,  where  the  line  of  houses  faced  the  shingle  and  the  sea. 
Here  were  Captain  Rockett's  cottage  and  garden  and 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  15 

minaretted  summer-house,  the  last  still  guarded  by  its 
battered  figure-heads;  Neptune  leered  at  him  as  if  in 
friendly  recognition.  He  passed  the  Ship  Inn;  the  squat 
black  mill  in  the  centre,  of  the  hamlet,  its  sails  revolving 
slowly  against  the  blue  sky,  with  a  drowsy  creak  and  rustle. 

George  came  to  the  Running  Horse. 

When  at  last  he  lifted  the  latch  and  entered,  the  famil- 
iarity of  it  all  struck  him  almost  like  a  blow.  Overhead 
ticked  the  clock,  sullen  and  yellow-faced,  that  had  hurried 
them  off  so  many  times  to  school,  ended  so  many  happy 
evenings,  marked  the  flying  minutes  of  his  farewell.  It 
had  ticked  out  the  last  hours  of  his  father's  life,  while  he 
was  away;  it  ticked  on  still,  to  welcome  his  return.  Tied 
.to  a  nail  in  the  wall  were  the  cord  and  ball  used  for  "  Kick- 
up-Jenny";  the  ninepins  were  stowed  away,  as  no  game 
was  in  progress.  Perhaps  the  ballad-sheets  and  cartoons 
on  the  walls  had  grown  a  little  dingier  with  the  years;  he 
noticed  one  addition,  a  print  in  vivid  reds  and  greens  and 
yellows,  showing  the  British  lion  swimming  over  the  Dover 
Straits,  and,  on  the  farther  shore,  Boney  quaking  in  terror: 
a  stream  of  broken  English,  looped  in  by  the  artist,  flowed 
from  his  lips.  .  .  .  But  on  the  shelves  and  hooks  above 
the  little  bar  scarcely  a  bottle  or  a  tankard  seemed  to  have 
been  altered,  and  there  were  familiar  names  chalked 
against  the  drink  scores  on  the  board. 

Familiar  faces,  too,  only  a  little  changed  by  time,  met 
his  eyes  as,  scarcely  noticed,  he  took  his  seat  in  a  dark 
corner.  There  were  more  customers  than  usual  for  a  late 
summer  afternoon.  Three  men  sat  with  pipes  and  mugs  at 
the  table  where  the  recruiters  had  sat  on  the  night  when 
George  enlisted.  That  was  Pinion,  surely — Pinion,  a  little 
balder,  a  little  more  shrivelled  and  more  wrinkled;  and 
Timothy  Thorn,  beside  him,  looked  more  like  an  owl  than 
ever,  with  his  round,  solemn  eyes,  his  ruffled  hair,  his 
moonish  face  spotted  with  moles,  from  which  George  had 


16  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

once  thought  the  feathers  were  trying  to  force  their  way. 

Captain  Rockett,  in  the  seat  of  honour  by  the  empty 
grate,  took  his  pipe-stem  from  his  lips. 

"Coming  yet,  'Lilah?"  he  asked. 

"No  sign  yet,  Cap'n.     They'm  late." 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  room,  save  for  the  rattle  of 
juice  in  foul  pipes,  the  clink  of  set-down  tankards,  and 
the  steady  ticking  of  the  clock.  Delilah  Gummer  stood  in 
the  bow-window,  with  her  eyes  on  the  cliff-path  towards 
Whitstable.  Suspense  and  expectation  seemed  in  the  air. 
For  a  few  minutes  no  one  spoke. 

George  was  thirsty;  the  smell  of  ale  and  spirits  made 
him  thirstier  still.  But  he  was  glad  he  had  been  overlooked, 
and,  fearing  that  his  voice  might  reveal  his  identity  at  once, 
he  waited  in  silence,  shading  the  lower  part  of  his  face  with 
his  hand.  He  had  looked  forward  so  long  to  this  hour  of 
his  return.  So  often — on  the  transport,  on  the  white  and 
dusty  road,  among  the  parched  Iberian  mountains,  by 
bivouac  fires  in  cork-forest,  or  vineyard,  or  ploughed  field 
— so  very  often,  when  he  lay  tossing  in  sleeplessness  or 
pain  after  his  wound,  with  only  the  framed  square  of  dark 
sky  and  night  to  watch  from  his  little  bed  in  the  cottage 
near  Toulouse — he  had  pictured  the  welcome  home.  Once 
he  had  thought  he  would  come  as  a  conqueror,  a  hero, 
with  honours,  with  wealth,  with  spoils  of  war.  And  then, 
as  years  dulled  the  edge  of  youth,  and  life  passed  its  blun- 
dering hand  over  the  glowing  colours  of  his  illusions  and 
ambitions,  his  heart  had  cried  still  for  home — home, 
with  its  kindly  faces — its  healing  and  consolation,  and  its 
peace. 

And  now,  with  the  moment  of  recognition  so  near,  he 
was  a  little  frightened.  He  felt  as  he  had  felt  on  Christ- 
mag  mornings  long  ago,  sitting  up  in  bed,  and  hugging  the 
stuffed  stocking — half  in  enjoyment  of  a  deferred  pleasure; 
half  in  fear,  lest  the  disclosure  of  his  gifts  should  bring  dis- 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  17 

appointment.  He  was  afraid,  now,  of  the  great  moment 
falling  tame  and  flat. 

George  watched  Delilah  standing  in  the  window — her 
flaming  hair,  the  back  of  her  freckled  neck,  the  strong 
freckled  arm  and  red  hand  resting  on  the  sill.  A  queer 
memory  flashed  across  his  mind.  Delilah  Glimmer's 
father,  puzzled  to  find  a  Biblical  name  for  the  last  child  of 
a  large  family,  had  opened  the  Book  at  random,  and  dis- 
covered this.  One  day,  when  George  was  a  very  little  boy, 
she  told  him  the  story  of  Samson  and  her  namesake.  A 
few  nights  later,  he  remembered  it  to  some  purpose.  That 
red  hand,  which  grated  and  knuckled  him  so  terribly  at  his 
toilet,  had  administered  smart  punishment  for  some  mis- 
deed. With  the  angry  tears  still  smarting  on  his  cheeks, 
he  crept  from  bed  the  moment  she  was  sound  asleep,  and, 
with  the  great  scissors  from  her  basket,  snipped  short  her 
fiery  locks.  But  a  woman's  hair,  though  her  glory,  is  not 
her  strength;  and  his  father's  stick  rubbed  in  his  disap- 
pointment. .  .  . 

His  father!  He  would  never  hear  that  sturdy  tread 
again;  never  again  his  voice  in  breezy  greeting,  or  noisy 
argument,  or  anger.  But  he  listened  eagerly  for  his  mother's 
footstep;  at  any  moment,  the  door  between  taproom  and 
little  parlour  might  open,  and  her  face,  so  dear  and  so 
familiar,  smile  a  welcome  to  the  guests.  He  tried  to  pic- 
ture the  change — the  dawn  of  surprise,  of  incredulity, 
merging  into  breathless  delight — with  which  she  would  see, 
and  know,  and  welcome  him.  And  John,  too — John,  his 
loyal  comrade  and  old  playmate!  He  would  be  altered 
almost  out  of  knowledge  in  these  years. 

At  the  thought  of  his  mother  and  his  brother,  George's 
conscience  pricked  him.  Before  that  awful  night  of  Bada- 
joz,  he  had  answered  the  letters  sent  on  to  him  through  the 
Town  Mayor's  Office  at  Lisbon,  letters  received  and  read 
in  scenes  so  different  from  the  quiet  home  in  which  they 

2 


18  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

had  been  written.  After  that,  he  had  let  month  follow 
month  without  writing;  and  the  bullet  at  Toulouse  snapped 
the  final  link  between  him  and  home. 

Sitting  in  the  dark  corner  of  the  taproom,  he  watched 
all  that  went  on  like  one  who  comes  back  again  from  the 
dead.  From  the  dead?  From  hell,  rather;  a  hell  of  shriek- 
ing agony,  of  mangled  and  writhing  and  tortured  forms, 
of  lust  and  horror,  of  license  unbridled  and  sin  unspeak- 
able. But  hell  had  ended.  The  lands  he  had  fought  and 
suffered  in  were  silent  enough  now,  charnel-houses,  hills 
and  valleys  of  dry  bones,  places  of  shuddering  memories, 
but  burned-out  passions  and  angers  and  torments;  red 
spaces,  marked  with  names  of  secret  and  bitter  mean- 
ing, on  the  mind's  map.  But  the  clean  sea  shut  them 
off. 

Oh,  he  would  forget!  He  was  born  again  into  the  world; 
untrodden  roads,  white  in  the  sun,  lay  before  him.  Already, 
wholesome  memories  of  childhood  cleansed  his  thought. 
His  reveille  now  would  be  his  mother's  voice;  his  only 
battles,  against  unkindness,  against  self,  against  pride  and 
discontent  and  unclean  thoughts.  .  .  . 

Bess  would  be  his  loyal  little  comrade.  That  closed 
door,  with  its  little  window  screened  with  the  red  blind, 
reminded  him  of  her  again.  He  saw  vivid  pictures  from 
the  past,  scenes  in  that  parlour;  afternoons  when  the  dark- 
haired,  madcap  girl  had  visited  them,  and  sitting  in  smocks 
and  pinafores  round  the  table,  they  had  choked  and  giggled 
over  their  bread  and  dripping,  until  his  father  had  entered 
from  the  taproom  to  call  them  all  to  order — or  his  mother,  to 
hear  and  share  the  joke.  Good  days,  those !  Oh,  grand  days, 
those!  And  they  had  come  again.  His  mind  leapt  over  ob- 
stacles; soon,  very  soon,  he  would  hold  Bess  to  her  promise. 
He  pictured  the  little  home  they  would  make  together. 
He  saw  it,  years  ahead,  noisy  with  the  laughter  of 
children. 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  19 

Captain  Rockett,  knocking  out  his  pipe  against  the  grate, 
recalled  him  from  his  dreams. 

"  I  reckon  I'll  be  catching  it  from  Mrs.  Rockett  if  they're 
much  longer,"  he  said.  "No  sign  yet,  'Lilah?" 

"I  hope  there  hasn't  been  no  'itch,"  answered  'Lilah 
gloomily,  from  her  window.  "I  only  hope " 

"No  'itch?  Why,  he  ain't  like  Simmons,  I  hope,  to  be 
put  off  with  a  few  'itches.  Ever  tell  you  about  him,  eh?" 
Captain  Rockett  looked  round  inquiringly.  "  No?  Well,  to- 
day reminds  me  of  the  afternoon  I  proposed  to  Mrs.  Rockett; 
wery  hot  day  it  was,  too,  and  my  last  ashore  from  the  old 
Lydia.  We  had  an  outing  on  the  downs  near  Reculver, 
and  Simmons — he  was  a  big  footman  at  the  Hall,  where 
she  was  in  service — was  in  the  party,  and  on  a  similar  tack 
to  me.  Knowing  it  was  my  last  chance  afore  I  went 
to  sea,  he  stuck  to  us  like  our  shadders,  and  I  couldn't 
shake  him  off  for  the  life  of  me.  'Wery  awkward,  this, 
James  Rockett,'  thoft  I;  'if  you  ax  her  straight  out, 
he'll  make  it  a  duet,  and  'tisn't  fair  to  any  lass  to  have  a 
couple  of  men  shouting  out,  "  Martha,  be  mine,  be  mine," 
one  to  each  ear.'  At  last  we  all  sat  down  to  have  our  wittles. 
Just  as  I  was  getting  down  beside  her,  I  saw  I'd  selected 
an  ant-hill — so  I  let  Simmons  have  that  instead,  and  he 
didn't  notice.  He  did  soon,  though.  By  and  by  he  began 
fidgeting  so  much  that  Martha  had  to  tell  him,  quite  sharp, 
to  sit  still.  Well,  the  next  thing  was  Martha  insisted  on 
setting  in  the  sun,  and  of  course  the  ants  jumped  and  danced 
livelier  than  ever.  'Rockett,'  says  he  at  last,  rubbing 
his  legs  surreptitious-like,  '  let's  leave  the  girls  a  bit,  and 
go  down  and  have  a  poochy.'  'Not  me,'  says  I,  'I  doan't 
hold  with  sea-bathing  after  a  meal.  But  you  go,  and  Mar- 
tha and  me'll  wait  on  the  clifts.'  'I  doan't  like  bathing 
alone,'  he  began,  when  one  of  the  other  men  said  he'd  go 
too.  'No,  Rockett  says  it  ain't  safe,'  grunts  Simmons, 
almost  dancing.  Soon  he  couldn't  stand  it  no  longer. 


20  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

'Rockett,'  whispers  he,  'I've  been  a-setting  on  a  ant-hill, 
and  I'm  suffering  like  the  damned.  Come  with  me  while 
I  shake  my  breeches  out.' 

"  '  I'll  stop  here  with  Martha,'  whispers  I  back.  '  I  can't 
say  it  interests  me  to  watch  you  shake  'em  out.'  'Wery 
well,'  mutters  Simmons,  savage-like,  'I'll  stay  if  I  die  for 
it.'  With  that,  knowing  him  to  be  a  pretty  determined 
sort  of  chap,  a  thought  struck  me.  'All  right,'  says  I, 
'I'll  come.' 

"As  soon  as  we  got  a  chance,  we  went  down  near  the  edge 
of  the  clift,  behind  some  brambles,  and  he  whipped  his 
breeches  off  in  no  time.  'That  ain't  the  way  to  shake,' 
says  I;  'give  'em  to  me,  and  try  rubbing  your  legs  with 
docks!'  He  gave  'em  up  like  a  lamb;  and  I  shook  'em  out 
so  wigorously  that  I  soon  shook  'em  over  the  edge  of  the 
clift.  '  You  done  it  a-purpose! '  he  screamed.  '  I'll  give  you 
the  rarest  bannocking ' 

"  '  You'd  better  get  behind  the  bushes  and  hide  your  legs, 
'cause  Martha's  coming,'  says  I.  And  so  I  proposed  to  her 
with  him  listening  behind  the  bushes  to  every  word!" 

Captain  Rockett  drained  his  glass. 

"Simmons  married  an  innkeeper's  widow  a  month 
after,"  he  continued,  wiping  his  mouth,  "and  I've  never 
been  sorry  for  taking  Solomon's  advice.  Perhaps  he'd 
tried  it  with  one  of  his  three  hundred.  A  wery  loving 
man,  Solomon  must  ha'  been.  .  .  .  Well,  all's  fair  in 
love  and  war,  and  married  life  ain't  unlike  the  kingdom 
of  Heaven;  if  you  don't  get  in  by  force,  wery  often  you 
don't  get  there  at  all.  I  reckon  if  John ' 

"Here  they  be  at  last!"  interrupted  Delilah  excitedly, 
and  flung  the  window  open. 

The  inn  guests  sprang  from  their  chairs;  in  an  instant, 
some  were  in  the  roadway,  others  on  the  threshold  of  the 
open  door,  two  or  three  standing  with  legs  and  bodies  inside 
the  room,  and  heads  thrust  through  the  window  which 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  21 

Delilah  had  just  opened.  George  went  forward  to  the  bow 
and  peered  over.  His  heart  leapt  up  and  stood  still. 

A  horse's  hoofs  clattered  along  the  shingle-strewn  path. 
"Hurrah!  Hurrah!  Welcome  home!"  cried  Captain 
Rockett  and  the  rest;  'Lilah,  flapping  a  dust-cloth  wildly 
in  her  excitement,  caught  Thorn  in  one  owlish  eye.  .  .  . 
The  horse  passed  the  window,  but  already  George  had  seen 
its  burden.  He  stood  for  a  second  like  a  man  in  a  dream. 
Was  it  a  dream?  All  a  dream — the  home-coming — and — 
and  this?  It  seemed  as  if,  in  a  moment,  the  reveille  bugles 
might  ring  out,  and  he,  waking  from  slumber,  feel  the  stiff- 
ness of  his  limbs  again;  see  around  him  again  his  comrades 
shaking  off  sleep;  hear  the  yawns,  the  oaths,  the  gruff 
orders  to  the  sluggards;  find,  overhead,  the  rugged  moun- 
tains cleaving  the  morning  sky.  .  .  .  Ah,  if  he  could! 

Dazed,  he  watched  his  brother  swing  himself,  laughing, 
from  the  saddle.  He  saw  willing  hands  lift  Bess,  all  smiles 
and  blushes,  from  her  perch  behind  him.  He  heard  a  fisher 
lad  offer  to  stable  the  mare.  "Ay,  and  give  her  a  feed  of 
corn,  Joe,"  said  John's  voice,  as  he  patted  the  white  coat; 
"she's  carried  us  well.  Haven't  you,  Blossom,  old  lass? 
My  word,  we  came  over  the  cliffs  like  the  wind.  Welcome 
home,  Bess,"  he  whispered,  and  kissed  her  on  the  threshold 
of  their  home. 

Bess!     Oh,  Bess! 

George  kept  in  the  background,  silent,  while  all  around 
were  talking  and  laughing  at  once.  This  was  Bessie  then. 
This  the  little  lass  whose  life  had  been  linked  with  his, 
actually  or  in  memory  and  thought,  as  long  as  either  could 
remember.  And  John  and  she  had  come  riding  into  his 
new  life — riding  down  the  hopes,  the  dreams,  the  unsub- 
stantial fabrics  built  on  the  ruins  of  the  old. 

They  stood  by  the  parlour  door,  together;  John's 
bronzed,  honest  face  aglow  with  a  new  pride  and  happiness; 
Bess  with  eyes — those  eyes  so  well  remembered — sparkling, 


22  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

yet  a  little  dim  at  their  welcome;  her  cheeks  flushed  with 
the  wind;  her  dark  hair  unruly  still.  She  brushed  it  back 
with  a  quick,  familiar  gesture.  He  caught  the  glint  of  a 
new  ring  in  the  sunshine. 

Captain  Rockett  was  making  a  little  speech.  "I  do 
think  we  ought  to  have  had  some  decorations  now," 
George  heard  him  saying.  "But  there  wasn't  no  time  to 
arrange  anything.  'Lilah  here  wanted  to  put  up  a  text 
from  her  bedroom — 'The  Wages  of  Sin  is  Death' — over 
the  bar,  but  it  didn't  seem  to  me  exackly  suitable  for  the 
occasion.  I  might  ha'  borrowed  the  'Welcome'  motto," 
he  went  on,  with  twinkling  eyes,  "that  they  had  up  at 
Canterbury  Gaol  when  the  royalists  wisited  the  city;  or 
we  might  have  hung  up  a  wreath  outside  with  a  motto — 
only  they'm  liable  to  accidents.  Leastways,  I've  beared 
that  they  put  up  a  laurel  wreath  for  Boney  once,  with 
'He  well  deserves  it'  underneath;  but  the  wind  (or  per- 
haps 'twas  some  one  who  didn't  hold  with  Boney)  knocked 
the  wreath  down,  and  left  the  noose  and  the  motto  hang- 
ing. .  .  .  Well,  if  we  haven't  hung  up  any  motto  of  wel- 
come, we  do  welcome  you,  wery  hearty,  John — and  you, 
Mrs.  Kennett.  Must'  Huntingdon  wouldn't  give  his  con- 
sent, so  you've  been  bold  and  done  without  it.  And  you 
don't  regret  it,  eh?" 

"Not  I,"  said  John,  laughing,  and  hooked  his  wife's 
arm  in  his.  " Do  you,  Bess?" 

"Oh,  it's  early  days  yet,"  she  said,  with  a  blush  and  a 
smile. 

A  chorus  of  jovial  laughter  greeted  her  answer. 

"Nor  you  won't  neither,"  went  on  Rockett,  "not  for  a 
tale  of  years,  I  reckon.  And  if  you  ain't  satisfied  with  her 
on  trial,  John,  you've  only  got  to  put  a  halter  round  her 
neck  and  bring  her  along  to  me,  and  I'll  give  'ee  a  pound 
note  for  her  any  day,  Mrs.  Rockett  making  no  objections. 
There,  I'm  danged  if  my  speech  ain't  gone  clean  out  of  my 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  23 

head,  though  I  learnt  it  off  rude-heart.  But,  as  Words- 
worth says,  John,  you  '  walked  the  world,  gay  and  affecting 
graceful  gaiety,'  until  fortune  made  known 

"  '  A  blooming  lady — a  conspicuous  flower, 
Whom  you  had  sensibility  to  love, 
Ambition  to  attempt,  and  skill  to  win ' 

and,  one  and  all,  we  wish  you  happiness." 

John  made  himself  heard  at  last  through  the  cheering. 
He  stammered  out  a  few  bluff  words  of  thanks.  "But 
there,  I'm  no  speaker,"  he  said.  "We  thank  you — my  wife 
and  I — from  the  bottom  of  our  hearts,  I'm  sure.  I — I'm 
not — here,  'Lilah,"  he  broke  off  abruptly,  "we'll  fill  up  the 
tankards,  and  our  friends'll  drink  a  health  to  your  Missus. 
Pinion,  you  can  stand  another  mug — or  d'you  say  water?" 

"Ale '11  do  me,  thankee,  Must'  Kennett,"  said  Pinion, 
with  a  slow,  sheepish  smile.  There  were  the  brisk  sounds 
of  clinking  earthenware  and  glass  and  pewter.  Pinion, 
having  gulped  his  down  too  quickly  for  the  toast,  was  in 
querulous  argument  with  Delilah.  "I  never  done  it  a-pur- 
pose!"  George  heard  him  say  indignantly.  "I  thoft  we 
had  to " 

"Let  me  help  too, "said  Bess,  and,  taking  a  mug  of  ale, 
looked  round  for  any  one  still  unprovided.  She  came 
straight  across  to  George;  her  smiling  eyes  looked  directly 
into  his.  "Will  you  have ?" 

The  question  broke  off  abruptly.  The  mug  slipped 
between  them,  and  crashed  to  pieces  on  the  floor. 

"That's  unlucky,"  whispered  some  one,  with  a  half 
whistle. 

John  Kennett  turned  his  head  sharply. 


CHAPTER   II 

"AX  THAT'S  that?  Who's  talking  about  bad  luck 
VV  to-day?"  cried  John,  in  his  hearty,  genial 
voice,  and  caught  sight  of  the  broken  mug  and  spilt  ale. 
"It  doan't  matter,  Bess,  a  little  ha'penny;  plenty  more 
mugs  where  that  come  from,  and  beer  too." 

Bess  stood  looking  at  George,  the  smile  gone  from  her 
face,  her  eyes  round  with  dazed  wonder,  unbelief — even 
alarm.  George  looked  into  the  depths  of  them.  Pinion 
was  growing  garrulous  over  his  ale.  "A  be  seventy-dree, 
a  be,"  his  quavering  old  voice  was  informing  Thorn;  "and 
a  mind  when  Must'  John's  feyther  and  mother — eh?"  He 
broke  off  at  a  nudge,  and  looked  at  Bess  and  George,  towards 
whom  other  eyes  were  turning.  In  the  sudden  silence, 
John  caught  sight,  for  the  first  time,  of  his  wife's  face.  He 
was  at  her  side  in  an  instant. 

"My  God,  lass!"  he  cried.  "What's  happened?  What 
is  it?" 

The  flush  of  pleasure  and  excitement  had  vanished;  she 
was  as  pale  as  death. 

"It's — it's  George!"  she  gasped,  and  clutched  her  hus- 
band's sleeve,  nestling  close  to  him. 

"George!"  He  stared,  open-mouthed,  then  passed  his 
hand  over  his  forehead  hastily.  "It — it  can't — George? 
Why,  poor  old  George's  been  dead  and  buried  this  twelve- 
month. George?" 

George  Kennett  gulped;  his  heart  was  thumping.  "Ay, 
it's  me,"  he  said  at  last,  half-sullenly.  "I've  come  back." 

A  feeling  of  resentment  began  to  stir  in  him.  They  had 
thought  him  dead — and  here  was  life  flowing  on  undis- 
turbed, merrily,  noisily,  in  the  hamlet,  in  the  home  where 
they  had  thought  his  place  vacant  for  ever.  Life  flowed  on 

24 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  25 

like  the  sea,  no  poorer,  though  a  child  has  spent  his  bucket- 
ful upon  the  sands.  Had  he  mattered  so  little?  And  Bess 
and  John  stood  facing  him — and  John's  ring  was  on  her 
finger — and  his  brother's  arm  had  stolen  round  her  waist. 

Every  eye  in  the  room  was  upon  him;  George  heard  the 
gasp  of  surprise,  detected,  in  that  moment  of  tension, 
scarcely  audible  breathings  of  recognition,  in  spite  of  the 
changes  that  time,  and  wounds,  and  hardship  had  brought 
about.  But  no  one  spoke. 

"I — I  don't  rightly  understand,"  John  muttered,  like 
one  dazed.  "You've  come  back?  But — and  yet  you've 
George's  face " 

George  nodded,  swallowed.  "Ay,  I'm  George  right 
enough."  His  throat  was  dry;  conflicting  impulses  and 
emotions  struggled  for  mastery.  What  a  home-coming! 
Long  ago  the  coloured  bubbles  blown  in  youth  had  been 
broken ;  he  had  expected  no  doffed  hats,  no  strewn  flowers, 
no  cheering  crowds.  But  he  had  anticipated,  again  and 
again,  a  day  of  which  he  would  be  sole  hero  in  the  hamlet. 
He  resented  this  division  of  the  honours.  At  the  end  of 
emotions — resentment,  jealousy,  disappointment,  misera- 
ble self-pity — at  the  end  of  all,  like  a  weighed  anchor  at  a 
chain's  end,  came  pride,  greater  and  heavier  than  all.  He 
might  make  the  moment  still  more  dramatic  by  reproaches 
and  scorn.  But  if  Bess  had  not  cared  to  wait,  had  taken 
his  death  so  readily  for  granted,  he  would  not  own  himself 
jilted  or  wronged  before  those  gaping  villagers. 

"Yes,  I'm  George,"  he  said  again.  "Come  back  just  in 
time  to  drink  your  health  and  Bessie's,  seemingly.  You 
don't  seem  to  believe  it  now,  but  it's  me,  sure  enough." 

"I  can't  hardly  believe  it,  George,  and  that's  true,"  said 
John,  thrusting  out  a  great  hand  and  gripping  his.  "But 
— there,  words  weren't  ever  made  that'll  say  how  glad  we 
are.  You  were  in  the  list  of  missing  after  Toulouse,  and 
we  heard  from  some  one  who'd  seen  you  shot  down." 


26  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

"So  I  was.  I  had  months  and  months  on  my  back  in  a 
cottage  after  the  country  folk  found  me;  but  they  pulled 
me  round  at  last — I've  got  to  thank  a  pretty  little  French 
girl  for  that."  He  threw  in  the  last  words  by  design.  "I 
couldn't  write  at  first,  and  then — well,  then  I  thought  I'd 
take  you  by  surprise.  I  reckon  I  have,  too.  You  and  Bess 
married  to-day,  tool" 

"Yes,  from  Tom  and  Mary's,  over  at  Whitstable.  Mr. 
Huntingdon  wouldn't  hear  of  it,  so  we  took  our  own  way. 
He  don't  know  yet.  ...  I  reckon  there  are  some  faces 
here  you'll  remember.  'Lilah,  you  haven't  forgot  Must' 
George?  And  Cap'n  Rockett — and  Pinion " 

They  clustered  round,  shaking  hands,  expressing  won- 
der, pleasure,  and  congratulations.  The  deferred  toast  was 
drunk  at  last — but  first,  at  John's  bluff  order,  seconded  by 
Bess,  they  drank  the  health  of  the  man  back  from  the  dead. 
The  hearty  welcome,  a  sense  of  secret  magnanimity, 
warmed  his  heart.  Bess  was  very  silent;  but  John,  ignorant 
of  the  memory  in  George's  mind  and  hers,  made  no  secret 
of  his  delight.  "To  think  I  should  get  a  wife  and  a  brother 
same  day!"  he  said.  "I  can't  hardly  believe  my  eyes  even 
now.  To  see  you  sitting  there,  George,  just  like  the 
old  days — though  you've  altered  almost  out  of  knowl- 
edge  " 

George  broke  in  at  last  on  his  repetitions  of  wonder  and 

unbelief.  "Where "  He  swallowed  again,  for  he  was 

groping  his  way  in  the  darkness  of  past  years.  "Where's 
mother,  John?  She'll  know  me  quicker  than  you  did,  I 
reckon." 

Captain  Rockett  coughed  uncomfortably,  mumbled 
something  about  work,  and  signed  to  those  near  him.  They 
went  out  softly,  some  reluctantly,  and  the  inn  door  closed. 
"They'm  better  left  to  theirselves  a  bit,"  he  said.  "Poor 
George!  It's  him  right  enough.  He's  come  back  in  the 
midst  of  joy  to  bear  sorrow.  Joy  and  sorrow!  It's  what 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  27 

all  has  in  life,  sure  enough;  but  God  don't  often  send  both 
in  the  same  parcel." 

For  a  moment  or  two  John  did  not  answer.  George 
glanced  from  his  face  to  Bess,  from  Bess  to  Delilah.  He 
read  their  news.  So  often  he  had  looked  forward  to  his 
mother's  welcome.  Why,  his  last  words  to  her,  shouted 
back  while  she  stood  smiling  through  dim  eyes  at  the  inn 
door,  had  been  of  the  home-coming,  and  the  fine  gifts  he 
would  bring  from  over-sea.  He  had  shrunk  sometimes 
from  the  thought  of  meeting  old  acquaintances,  after  his 
boasts  of  what  war  must  bring  him.  But  not  her,  never 
her.  Her  face  would  show  no  less  welcome — ah,  welcome 
more  tender  and  more  loving  perhaps — if  he  came  to  her  as 
helpless,  as  naked,  as  when  he  first  nestled  in  her  bosom. 

"She's ?"    He  could  not  bring  the  word  out. 

His  brother  nodded.    There  was  a  minute's  silence. 

"It  was  in  August  she  took  ill,"  John  went  on  at  last. 
"She  died  three  weeks  after.  It  was  in  the  evening,  the 
last  Sunday  of  the  month.  She  seemed  better,  we  reckoned; 
but  she  had  a  queer  fancy  to  put  on  her  best  things.  Bess 
was  in,  helping  to  nurse,  and  she  and  'Lilah  dressed  her,  and 
put  on  the  brooch  and  chain  that  feyther  gave  her.  Then 
she  sat  in  her  chair,  very  quiet  and  happy,  looking  out  over 
the  sea  and  along  the  cliffs  towards  Whitstable — the  way 
we've  just  come.  'Feyther  and  I  came  that  way  home 
when  we  were  married,  nigh  thirty  years  ago,'  she  said, 
though  she  couldn't  speak  much  above  a  whisper.  Bess 
gave  her  a  dish  of  tea,  and  then  she  sat  watching  the  sun- 
set. It  was  just  going  down  over  by  Sheppey,  and  there 
was  a  great  broad  path  to  it,  over  the  wet  sands  and  the 
sea,  all  twinkling  gold.  Suddenly  the  light  seemed  to 
catch  her  face,  and  she  got  up,  quite  straight,  looking  right 
at  the  sun,  and  curtsied — like  she  used  when  she  met  the 
parson  or  the  quality.  You  remember?" 

George  remembered. 


28  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"  Bess  and  I  ran  forward,  and  caught  her,  and — and— 
George's  eyes  were  on  the  floor;  and  he  did  not  look  up  for 
a  full  minute. 

"Did  she — did  she  say  anything  about  me?" 

"She  was  talking  about  you  in  the  afternoon.  She 
thought  you  were  dead,  though;  we  all  did." 

They  talked  quietly,  soberly,  over  old  memories,  old 
friends,  while  Delilah  spread  a  meal  in  the  little  parlour. 
George  was  taken  up  to  the  attic  where  he  and  his  brother 
had  slept  in  years  gone  by.  His  mother  was  dead!  His 
mother  dead!  Under  all  the  thronging  thoughts  ran  that 
sad  knowledge.  Disappointment,  jealousy,  even  self-pity, 
were  blotted  out.  He  washed  his  face  and  hands,  and  then 
fumbled  in  his  bundle  for  a  packet  of  old  letters.  The  one 
he  opened  had  been  written  just  after  his  father's  death. 
Mrs.  Kennett  wrote  of  the  many  mansions;  but  between 
the  lines  George  read  an  aching  longing  for  the  old  life: 
for  the  little  inn  beside  the  shore  to  be  given  back  some 
day  as  it  had  been — with  its  cosy  winter  fireside;  the  clatter 
of  hoofs  in  the  yard  as  her  husband  came  from  his  summer 
marketings;  their  night  talks  in  the  bedroom  where  she 
would  have  to  sleep  alone — just  the  inn  and  its  master, 
with  all  the  touchiness  and  contradictions  that  now  seemed 
dearer  than  other  memories;  if  God  gave  her  these  again, 
she  would  ask  no  mansion  else.  And  was  she,  now,  in  some 
heavenly  mansion  of  God's  preparing?  How  timid  she 
would  be ;  how  shy  of  all  the  state  and  glory ;  how  anxious 
that  her  husband  should  not  find  fault.  The  lines  swam; 
George's  eyes  grew  dim. 

He  knelt  on  the  broad  window-seat  for  a  few  minutes; 
mists  were  shrouding  Sheppey,  and  night  near  at  hand. 
Here  he  had  knelt  and  listened  to  the  rumble  of  the 
recruiters'  voices  down  below,  and  had  wept  with  rage 
because  his  father  had  drowned  the  retriever  pup  Bess  had 
given  him  from  the  farm.  It  was  a  little  incomprehensible 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  29 

to  him  now,  that  coil  about  a  puppy.  He  was  glad  that 
when  he  had  come  back  to  the  inn  in  the  glory  of  his  new 
uniform,  he  and  his  father  had  shaken  hands  on  that  night's 
quarrel. 

There  were  some  presents  in  his  bundle;  but  he  left 
those  for  a  later  time.  He  came  down  the  creaking  stair- 
case, and  took  his  place  at  table. 

It  was  difficult  to  shake  off  an  impression  of  the  unreal. 
No  longer  back  than  yesterday,  it  seemed,  John  and  Bess 
and  he  had  been  still  in  the  golden  city  of  youth.  To-day, 
they  had  left  its  gates,  and  were  well  on  the  road  of  life. 
They  had  grown  up  suddenly — by  magic — in  an  hour. 
Time's  scythe  seemed  to  have  cut  from  each  life  so  many 
years,  and  joined  the  severed  ends.  He  remembered  John 
as  a  grave,  solemn,  plodding  lad — shy  and  rather  silent. 
Now,  his  bronzed  face  was  set  in  firmer  lines;  his  voice 
was  fuller,  like  a  strong  echo  of  his  father's;  the  day's 
happiness — shadowed  over  for  a  time  by  the  remembered 
loss — seemed  to  give  him  an  unfamiliar  confidence.  When 
George  won  her  promise  at  the  trysting-gate,  Bess  was  a 
slim,  undeveloped,  pretty  girl;  and  mischief  lingered  to  tempt 
her,  while,  in  the  other  ear,  life  was  already  whispering  its 
graver  secrets.  And  now  the  added  years  had  fulfilled  the 
promise  of  maidenhood.  George  noticed  the  dimpled 
throat  and  neck,  the  first  soft  rise  of  the  breast,  which  the 
low-cut  dress  revealed;  her  hair,  still  rebellious,  with  shades 
like  the  dusky  blue  of  autumn  thickets  in  the  dark  mass; 
her  eyes  so  true  and  frank,  yet  so  stored  with  mystery. 
Wonderful  eyes — the  inscrutable  eyes  of  Devon  rather 
than  of  Kent,  grey-blue,  changing  shade  like  the  sea,  and 
fringed  with  long,  dark  lashes  heightening  their  charm. 
His  own  dropped  when  they  met  them — dropped,  as  they 
had  dropped  when  the  two  were  boy  and  girl  together. 

His  heart  had  known  its  own  mate  when  it  had  cried 
"Bessie!  Little  Bess!"  in  the  dark  Iberian  nights. 


30  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

They  pushed  back  their  chairs,  and  the  two  men  chatted 
over  pipes  and  glasses.  John  told  how  his  wedding  had 
come  about.  Evidently  Bess  had  said  nothing  of  her 
promise.  "Mind  you,"  he  said,  "I  was  always  fond  of 
Bess,  even  when  I  was  a  little  chap,  and  we  went  black- 
berrying  or  picnicking,  all  three  of  us.  I  was  never  one 
able  to  talk,  no  more  than  I  am  now;  though  to-day,  some- 
how, saying  'I  will'  out  loud  to  parson  and  folk  seems  to 
have  loosed  my  tongue.  I  often  used  to  wish  I  could  talk 
like  you,  George.  Bess  never  thought  I  cared  twopence 
for  her.  Did  you,  lass?  But  news  of  your  death  came;  and 
then  mother's  death,  and  Bess  being  there,  seemed  to 
draw  us  closer  like.  Her  feyther  wouldn't  hear  of  it, 
though;  he  always  wanted  his  family  to  rank  again  with 
gentry,  you  know;  and  there  was  Akenside  asking  for  her. 
Well,  she  chose;  and  I  pray  God  He'll  make  me  a  good 
husband  to  her." 

John  looked  at  Bess,  and  George  had  to  break  a  rather 
awkward  silence. 

"Well,  you're  wed  before  me,  John,"  he  said,  with  a 
short  laugh,  "and  that's  as  it  should  be,  you  bein'  two 
years  older.  My  wig!  I  thought  of  bringing  back  that 
little  French  girl  once  or  twice;  but  I  reckon  an  English 
lass  is  better  than  them  foreigners  for  wear.  Who's  left, 
now?  Peg  Hardwick?  Nance  Havers?" 

"You  can't  have  neither  of  them,  George.  Tis  Cousin 
Nance  now;  she  and  Will  Ford  have  got  a  shop  at  Sturry. 
Peg's  tokened  to  young  Homersham." 

"Homersham!  Why,  he — but  of  course  he's  grown  up 
along  with  the  rest.  How's  Tom  and  Mary?" 

"Grand — doing  well.  Four  more  babies  since  you  went 
away.  Three  boys,  and  she  made  you  an  aunt  two  months 
come  Sunday,  George." 

George  and  Bess  laughed.  "I'll  go  over  to-morrow  and 
see  them,  then.  If  you'll  put  me  up  so  long,  that  is. " 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  31 

"Put  you  up?"  cried  John.  "We'll  not  let  you  go  off 
again  in  a  hurry,  I  can  tell  you.  There's  our  old  room  so 
long  as  ever  you  want  it,  and  I  hope  that'll  be  for  many  a 
day  yet — eh,  Bess?  What's  that?  Get  work?  Look  here, 
George,  if  you  talk  about  that  to-day,  I'll — I'll — I'll  make 
you  pay  for  that  mug  you  and  Bess  smashed  between  you. 
I  mean  it,"  he  said,  and  banged  his  fist  down  on  the  table. 

By  and  by  George  got  up.  "I  think  I'll  go  and  smoke  a 
pipe  on  the  downs  before  bed,"  he  said.  "My  word!  there's 
a  lot  happened.  You  wed;  me  come  alive  again;  and — 
and " 

He  went  out,  with  the  thought  of  his  mother  in  his  mind. 
That  loss  overshadowed  all  else  just  then — even  the  mar- 
riage. It  softened  everything.  Now,  she  would  under- 
stand his  not  writing — and  forgive. 

There  were  things,  though,  that  he  hoped  she  could  not 
know.  Or  could  they,  too,  be  forgiven? 

It  was  dark  now,  save  for  soft  starlight  falling  on  land 
and  sea.  Round  the  black  hull  of  a  Sunderland  collier,  run 
high  and  dry  on  to  the  beach,  men  and  horses  were  at  work 
by  lantern  light.  Outside  the  Ship  Inn  a  fire  had  been  lit 
for  baking;  in  those  days  each  household  baked  its  own 
bread  on  the  shingle.  Across  the  flames,  which  twisted 
and  writhed  like  fiery  serpents  over  the  heap  of  sticks  and 
wrack,  some  boys  were  jumping;  and  a  fisherman's  wife 
called  one  of  them  to  his  bed. 

"Yes,  mother.     I  be  coming  dreckly-minute." 

How  many  times  George  had  answered  like  that,  twenty 
years  before! 

He  stood  on  the  crest  of  the  downs,  that  scene  of  old 
adventure;  the  sounds  on  the  beach  were  softened  by 
distance,  the  twinkling  lights  at  sea  were  dim  and  hazy, 
a  quiet  breeze  hushed  and  rocked  to  sleep  the  grasses  and 
wildflowers.  He  stood  looking  out  over  the  dark  waters 
and  his  mind  was  full  of  the  echoes  of  old  dreams.  This 


32  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

was  real — the  soft,  grass-covered  earth  under  his  feet;  the 
little,  ragged  line  of  houses,  with  the  black  arms  of  the  mill 
held  up  in  the  centre  in  droll  surprise;  the  ships,  the  distant 
laughter  and  voices,  the  sea.  He  had  dreamed  a  dream  of 
seven  years,  and  was  awake  again. 

He  thought  over  the  things  that  he  had  dreamed.  He 
saw  again  the  rugged  heights  of  Lisbon  rising  above  the 
Tagus;  the  lights  twinkling  from  a  thousand  villas  on  the 
slopes;  the  feluccas,  lateen-rigged,  skimming  past  the  trans- 
port; the  ropes  stretched  from  the  tall  masts  of  harboured 
ships  across  the  great,  low-hanging  moon.  He  was  in  the 
streets,  dreaming  smells,  dreaming  beggars,  dreaming 
pariah  dogs,  and  snuff-coloured  priests,  and  soft-footed 
peasants  with  peaked  hats  and  pointed  sticks  and  skins 
of  wine.  There  were  stalls  bright  with  strange  fruits,  and 
stalls  where  small  fish  fizzled  in  evil-smelling  oil,  and  stalls 
laden  with  bullets  and  ancient,  rusty  arms.  Little  boys 
with  cocked  paper  hats,  and  mimic  swords,  and  flags, 
marched  in  squads,  or  crowed  in  derision  of  the  Gallic  cock. 
The  black,  ugly  faces  of  negro  pages  grinned  at  him  from 
great  head-dresses  of  gaudy  velvet;  running  footmen  in 
gay  liveries  preceded  the  coaches  of  their  masters;  the 
royal  carriages,  lent  for  some  funeral,  swayed  and  creaked 
on  their  gloomy  journey  through  the  streets. 

And  then,  suddenly,  he  was  marching  with  the  green- 
jackets  along  dusty  roads  far  from  the  city;  trudging  on, 
staggering  on,  interminably;  cursing  the  equipment  that 
weighed  him  down,  cursing  the  fierce  sun  that  showed  no 
mercy.  Suddenly  men — Spaniards — met  them,  screaming 
defeat  and  Wellesley's  death.  Faster  still  they  were  goaded 
on;  dreams  changed  into  a  nightmare  of  war.  That  terrible 
march,  sixty  miles,  they  said,  in  twenty-six  hours,  ended 
on  the  field  of  Talavera.  Pale  and  mangled  bodies,  some 
still  quivering,  some  masses  of  human  pulp  and  blood  that 
still  had  power  to  shriek,  lay  in  thousands.  In  the  blazing 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  33 

scrub  between  the  lines,  wounded  men  were  burning  to 
death;  on  the  blackened  ground  that  the  fire  had  done  its 
work  with,  shrivelled  bodies,  like  huge  dried-up  frogs,  were 
massed.  He  saw,  a  little  later,  the  long  tables  where  the 
surgeons  were  at  work,  and  the  piles  of  legs  and  arms 
carelessly  flung  down. 

With  shuddering  horror  his  mind  passed  to  the  scene 
of  his  first  fight.  Barba  del  Puerco,  they  called  the  place; 
a  little  post  high  among  the  mountains.  He  and  some 
comrades  were  crouching  over  a  wood  fire  in  a  tiny  church, 
when  the  yells  and  volleys  of  the  French  were  heard.  Five 
hundred  French  and  less  than  half  a  hundred  English  were 
fighting  for  possession  of  the  bridge.  He  was  afraid  at 
first — but  it  was  fear  of  fear  rather  than  of  the  enemy. 
How  vividly  that  night  came  back  to  him!  He  saw  the 
rugged  mountains,  heard  the  firing,  the  drums,  the  shouts 
echoing  among  the  rocks;  and  the  cold  moonlight,  pouring 
through  a  film  of  misty  cloud,  glittered  on  the  bayonets 
as  the  riflemen  pushed  back  their  foes,  foot  by  foot,  across 
the  bridge. 

Many  a  stiff  fight,  many  a  long  march,  many  a  night 
under  open  sky,  or  canvas,  or  wattled  branches  torn  from 
the  woods,  had  taught  George  his  craft  and  hardened  him. 
Until  to-night  he  had  thought  over  many  things  without 
pity  or  repulsion.  But  Badajoz  was  a  memory  he  never 
cared  to  dwell  on.  He  turned  from  it  now,  and  walked 
back  quickly  towards  the  inn. 

He  had  dreamed,  and  was  awake  again.  He  was  dead, 
and  was  alive  again.  Badajoz  was  the  culminating  horror 
of  his  dreams,  the  hell  visited  in  death.  He  must  forget. 
The  man  who  had  fought,  and  suffered,  and  sinned,  far 
away  from  the  fair  fields  and  orchards  and  woods  of  Kent, 
was  dead.  He  would  shut  out  from  his  mind  those  awful 
years.  He  would  begin  again,  pick  up  life  where  he  had 
left  it  on  that  early  morning  when  he  had  tramped  from 
3 


34  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Hythe  to  Dover  behind  the  bugle-horns,  and  "Over  the 
Hills  and  Far  Away"  had  brought  the  sleepy  rustics  from 
their  beds.  He  would  forget  all  that  had  happened  since 
he  had  stood,  that  day,  on  the  Malabar  transport,  and 
looked  at  the  jostling  boats  round  her,  and  watched  the 
waving  of  handkerchiefs  on  shore,  and  listened  to  the  scam- 
per of  the  sailors'  feet  around  the  windlass,  and  dreamed 
his  dreams  of  glory  while  Blue  Peter  was  still  flying  at  the 
truck.  Glory!  What  pictures  he  had  painted,  what  plans 
laid,  when  honours  and  wealth  had  seemed  such  easy 
winning!  What  a  future  he  had  mapped  out,  not  knowing 
the  iron  rules  of  the  world,  "not  knowing  in  any  wise  his 
own  heart,  or  what  it  would  some  day  suffer." 

George  passed  under  the  darkling  houses  towards  the 
inn.  In  his  ears  were  the  gasp  of  slipping  shingle  and  the 
murmur  of  the  restless  sea — the  sea,  that  laughs  and  sobs 
its  chorus  to  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  mortality.  He  would 
forget;  he  would  live  cleanly;  he  had  learnt,  and  under- 
stood. It  would  be  easy  to  pick  up  the  threads  of  his  old 
life  again,  the  threads  of  all  that  the  years  had  left  him, 
now  that  his  father  was  gone,  and  his  mother — and  Bessie. 

On  the  red  blind  of  the  little  parlour,  as  he  passed  to 
the  door  opening  into  the  courtyard  beside  the  inn,  he 
saw  the  shadows  of  two  heads,  very  close  together.  There 
was  a  little  hurried  scuffle  as  the  latch  clicked;  Bess  smiled 
at  him,  her  face  rosily  flushed,  her  hair  towsled. 
"Oh,  it's  only  George,"  she  said, 


CHAPTER   III 

EORGE  woke  early  the  next  morning,  with  the  sun 
v_Jt  streaming  into  the  room,  and  the  dazzle  of  waves 
flickering  on  the  walls.  He  lay  some  time  before  rising, 
watching  the  blue  rims  of  sea  and  sky  through  the  little 
window,  and  the  white  gulls  skimming  past  on  their  rest- 
less journeyings.  When  he  came  down,  Bess,  in  pretty 
flowered  cotton,  with  her  face  rosy  from  soft  rain-water, 
was  helping  Delilah  with  the  breakfast.  John  came  in 
from  the  stable  a  minute  later. 

"Slept  well?  I  reckon  the  room  seems  smaller  than 
when  you  and  I  slept  together  there,  eh,  George?"  he  said 
with  a  cheerful  laugh. 

"Plenty  big  enough  for  me,"  George  answered.  "Yes, 
I  slept  like  a  top,  thanks.  I've  got  used  to  beds  again  by 
now.  In  Spain,  once,  I  remember,  some  of  us  came  to  a 
house  where  there  were  decent  beds,  and  the  pillows  fixed 
up  with  bows  of  ribbon.  We  thought  ourselves  jolly 
lucky,  I  can  tell  you;  but  blessed  if  we  weren't  all  sleep- 
ing on  the  floor  before  the  night  was  out — couldn't  get  a 
wink  sleeping  soft,  after  so  many  months  of  the  hard 
ground.  Never  tasted  ham " 

He  broke  off,  for  John  had  closed  his  eyes  suddenly, 
and  was  saying  grace.  "I  feel  like  saying  grace  for  every- 
thing now,"  he  said,  after  the  "Amen."  "I  catch  myself 
saying  it  inside  every  now  and  then;  ay,  ay,  for  what  we 
receive  may  we  be  truly  thankful.  God's  given  me  some- 
thing a  sight  more  precious  than  ham  or  bread  and  butter." 
John  looked  at  Bess,  who  smiled  back  at  him. 

"I  reckon  I'd  have  said  it  for  ham  like  this  in  Spain  or 
Portugal,"  said  George;  "better'n  maize,  and  peanuts, 
and  mouldy  biscuits,  this  is." 

35 


36  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

"Home-cured  ham,"  mumbled  John,  with  his  mouth 
full. 

Breakfast  over,  George  remembered  his  bundle  and  his 
presents.  He  ran  upstairs  to  get  them. 

"I  brought  back  one  or  two  things  for  you,"  he  said, 
awkwardly,  "nothing  much — precious  little  to  show  for 
all  this  time,  still," — he  bent  red-faced  over  the  bundle — 
"there's  a  Spanish  pistol  for  you,  John.  I  got  it  off  a 
dead  guerilla " 

"Oh,  my!"  exclaimed  Delilah.  "I  see  a  stuffed  one  at 
Herne  Fair  last  Martinmas.  But  I  thoft " 

George  laughed,  and  explained.  "It's  a  handy  weapon," 
he  went  on,  "better  than  what  it  looks.  Here's  a  hand- 
ful of  bullets,  too.  I've  only  fired  it  half  a  dozen  times, 
but  it's  almost  as  certain  as  the  Baker  rifle  at  its  distance." 

John  and  Bessie  bent  over,  examining  the  delicate 
carving  on  the  butt. 

"Oh,  my!"  screamed  Delilah,  at  a  sudden  movement 
on  John's  part,  "don't  point  it  at  me  like  that,  Must' 
John,  the  ugly  thing!  I'm  skeered  out  of  my  life  at  fire- 
arms." 

"  'Tisn't  loaded,  'Lilah,"  said  George  with  a  laugh, 
taking  it  from  his  brother  and  clicking  the  trigger.  "Click! 
click!"  he  mimicked.  "I  reckon  that's  the  last  sound  a 
good  many  have  listened  to  with  whole  skins." 

"Has  it  killed  any  one,  Must'  George?"  asked  'Lilah, 
drawing  a  little  closer,  cautiously,  as  if  fascinated.  "  Them 
tiny  little  bullets,  too!  Oh,  my!" 

"  I  reckon  so,  'Lilah.  The  man  I  got  it  off  killed  a  good 
many  Frenchies  in  his  time,  'fore  he  got  nobbled  himself. 
A  big,  handsome  chap  he  was.  Here's  the  scarf  I  took 
off  him;  you  can  have  that,  'Lilah."  He  held  out  the 
handsome  scarf,  silk  of  a  purple  hue  that  changed  to  green 
and  gold  as  it  was  handled. 

"Off  the  dead  gorilla,  Must'  George?" 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  37 

She  turned  her  property  over,  looking  for  gruesome 
stains. 

"He  had  a  silver  spur  strapped  round  one  foot — no 
shoes  nor  stockings — but  I  lost  that.  There's  a  little  gold 
cross  I  got  out  of  one  of  the  churches  for  you,  Bess.  I 
meant  this  chain  for — for  mother,  but  you'd  better  keep 
it  too,  now.  I  found  that  in  a  convent.  There's  a  shawl 
for  Mary."  He  spread  it  out. 

John  was  trying  the  lock  of  his  pistol.  "I  hope  it's 
killed  its  last  man,  George,"  he  said.  "It'll  be  useful  to 
carry,  though,  when  I'm  going  along  with  money  at  night. 
There's  been  bother  since  you  went  away  with  flaskers 
and  poachers,  and  it  ain't  reckoned  safe  to  go  far  on  a 
dark  road  unarmed." 

"Craddock  still  on  his  work?" 

"Brisker'n  ever,"  said  John.  Craddock  was  the  riding- 
officer  who  patrolled  the  coast,  night  and  day,  from  Faver- 
sham  Creek  to  the  marshes  beyond  Reculver.  Talk 
turned  on  his  exploits  and  reverses.  John  laid  down  laws 
of  his  own,  which  were  not  laws  of  England,  about  free- 
trading,  but  denounced  with  equal  warmth  the  smuggling 
of  gold  over  Channel  to  pay  Napoleon's  troops. 

"Oh,  John,"  said  Bess,  "you'll  break  our  best  table  if 
you  bang  it  like  that!" 

John's  thunders  stopped  instantly  in  a  sidelong  glance 
and  shy  smile. 

One  night,  during  George's  absence,  a  smuggler  had 
been  shot  by  the  preventive  men  close  to  the  inn.  'Lilah 
gave  a  graphic  account  of  hearing  the  noise  of  hoofs  and 
firing  at  dead  of  night.  "  Here  be  Judgment  Day  at  last, 
I  thoft,  and  scratched  out  of  bed  to  put  on  something 
decent."  Her  chief  concern  seemed  to  have  been  whether 
the  other  members  of  the  household  were  prepared.  They 
brought  the  man  into  the  inn,  stone-dead;  Delilah  pointed 
out  to  George  on  her  own  body,  with  pleasing  accuracy, 


38  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

the  site  and  magnitude  of  his  wound.  "Wery  quiet 
and  peaceful-looking  he  was,"  said  she,  musing,  "for  a  man 
who'd  been  killed  only  three  minutes  before,  and  was  wery 
likely  bein'  pitched  into  the  lake  o'  fire  at  that  moment." 

"Why,  'Lilah,  what  an  awful  thing  to  think!"  said  Bess. 

"Well,  I  beared  tell  he  was  a  wery  ill-living  man," 
insisted  Delilah. 

"  You  ought  to  have  seen  as  many  men  stick  their  spoons 
in  the  wall  as  I  have,  'Lilah,"  said  George  airily;  "you 
wouldn't  set  so  much  count  then  on  what  the  parson  fright- 
ens you  with.  Good  or  bad,  they  don't  look  much  differ- 
ent when  they're  pitched  in  the  trenches." 

"  'Lilah's  right,  though,  there  is  a  difference,"  said 
John  with  decision.  "But  it  don't  take  long  to  send  a 
little  prayer  up,  and  let's  hope  that  poor  fellow " 

"Most  I've  seen  died  swearing,"  persisted  George. 

"I  reckon  we  can  only  go  by  what  the  Bible  tells  us." 

"Oh " 

George  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  changed  his 
mind  suddenly — and  then  the  subject.  He  had  no  mind 
just  then  for  a  religious  controversy.  He  made  them 
laugh,  instead,  with  a  graphic  description  of  a  duel  he  had 
witnessed  on  the  quay  at  Lisbon.  Two  sailors  who  had 
quarrelled  were  seated  astride  across  a  barrel,  face  to 
face;  and  the  seats  of  their  breeches  were  nailed  tightly 
to  the  wood.  They  pommelled  each  other  lustily,  while 
the  barrel  rocked  to  and  fro.  At  last  a  well-directed  blow- 
sent  one  man  flying  backward,  legs  in  air — the  nails  and 
stout  canvas  held  him  tightly  to  the  rolling  cask — and 
thus  he  had  to  stay,  inverted,  until  the  boatswain  cut  him 
free.  His  flight  from  the  jeering  crowd  to  his  ship  was  like 
the  exit  of  a  blushing  debutante  who  may  not  tun?  her 
back  on  royalty. 

One  of  his  comrades  in  the  rifle  corps  was  a  ventrilo- 
quist; George  remembered  one  occasion  on  which  his  gift 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  39 

had  won  them  a  good  dinner.  Some  superstitious  country 
folk  had  cooked  it  for  themselves;  as  they  lifted  their 
goose  out  of  the  pot,  it  came  to  life  again,  and  railed  at 
them,  in  Irish-Portuguese,  for  their  brutality.  The  peas- 
ants fled  in  terror,  crossing  themselves  and  muttering 
prayers,  and  left  the  riflemen  in  sole  possession.  One 
story  led  easily  to  another;  and  George,  in  his  turn,  lis- 
tened to  accounts  of  the  few  events  that  had  broken  the 
monotony  of  village  life — tales  of  the  sea,  familiar  on  every 
coast,  of  wrecks  in  winter,  and  the  great  comet,  and  how 
the  news  of  victories  flamed  through  the  land,  and  how 
peace  was  celebrated  with  much  ale  and  many  roasted 
oxen. 

He  wandered  through  the  rooms,  downstairs  and  up; 
his  long  absence,  and,  more  than  all,  his  mother's  death, 
gave  to  things  commonplace  and  prosaic  a  touch  of  poetry, 
a  kind  of  personality  almost  human.  Half  a  pipe  smoked 
in  the  stable  made  him  better  acquainted  with  Blossom, 
the  white  mare  who  had  brought  John  and  Bess  back  into 
his  life.  George  spent  the  sunny  morning  on  the  downs 
and  by  the  shore.  In  wholesome  daylight  his  memories 
of  past  years  were  robbed  of  half  their  horror.  Conscience 
approved  his  cheerful  renunciation.  He  felt  good — a  feel- 
ing as  pleasant  as  it  was  strange.  In  part  payment  for 
his  virtue  George  gave  himself  a  little  license.  He  ex- 
panded in  the  warmth  of  self-approval,  and  posed,  heroic, 
before  a  knot  of  fishermen  and  idlers  who  clustered  round 
him  on  the  beach.  The  eager  interest  of  his  audience  car- 
ried him  too  far.  "My  wig!"  exclaimed  a  fisherman, 
meaning  no  sarcasm,  "you  told  us  you  were  going  to  do 
great  things.  I  reckon,  now,  you  got  made  a  sergeant  at 
least  for  all  that?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  do  so  much.  No,  I  joined  a  private,  and 
I  was  a  private  at  Toulouse.  Precious  few  chances  in  the 
English  army,  except  you've  got  money  and  friends." 


40  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Stebbings,  a  small  farmer  who  had  joined  the  group, 
came  to  his  help.  He  was  a  man  who  prided  himself  on 
his  opposition  to  the  existing  order.  Perhaps  it  was  in 
protest  against  nature,  which  had  afflicted  him  with  a 
spasmodic,  affirmative  nodding  of  the  head.  Stebbings' 
tongue  might  say  no;  his  head  perpetually  nodded  yes. 
It  had  been  nodding  steadily  throughout  George's  nar- 
rative, though  the  sea  wind,  tugging  at  the  long,  sandy 
whiskers  which  he  wore  in  protest  against  the  fashion  of 
the  day,  had  tried  to  steady  it  by  violent  means. 

"  Money  and  friends! "  growled  Stebbings.  "  You've  put 
your  finger  on  the  spot  I'm  always  trying  to  hammer  in, 
George,  though  they  won't  believe  me.  Money  and  friends 
is  the  worms  in  the  bud,  so  to  speak,  that's  making  shipwreck 
of  Old  England.  It's  the  same  with  the  Church,  the  same 
with  Parliament.  Does  the  best  man  come  to  the  top,  I 
ask  you?  Has  he  a  chance  without  wealth  and  influence? 
Has  he?"  Stebbings  said  "No,"  emphatically,  but  his 
head  contradicted  him  with  an  equally  emphatic  "Yes." 

He  made  George  a  text  for  a  tirade  against  the  Govern- 
ment. "Government?  I  call  them  that;  but  we  haven't 
got  no  Government,  and  won't  have  till  each  man  has  his 
vote.  We've  a  lot  of  muddle-headed,  money-grubbing, 
blood-sucking  old  women  that  we  call  a  Government, 
but  if  you  ask  me " 

A  terrific  uproar,  shouts,  gasps,  laughter,  mingled  with 
the  spitting  and  mewing  of  a  cat  and  the  furious  bark- 
ing of  a  dog,  brought  Stebbings  to  an  abrupt  close. 

"Starf  take  us!"  cried  a  fisherman,  flinging  down  a 
corner  of  a  net.  "It's  Mrs.  Rockett  and  old  Punch!" 

"And  the  Ship  cat!"  yelled  a  boy,  springing  up. 

On  the  road  between  the  houses  and  the  beach  a  pathetic 
and  unusual  sight  met  their  eyes. 

The  cat  referred  to,  a  sleek  and  bloated  Tom,  crouched  in 
the  centre  of  the  path,  bristling  with  fear  and  indignation 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  41 

and  surprise.  An  enormous,  shaggy  dog,  of  some  name- 
less breed  that  did  credit  to  the  originality  of  its  parents, 
bore  down  on  it,  and  dragged  an  elderly  and  unwilling 
lady  into  battle. 

"Drop  the  lead,  mum;  drop  the  lead!"  cried  a  maid 
from  the  Ship,  who  had  come  with  a  broom  to  the  rescue 
of  her  pet. 

"I  can't,"  gasped  Mrs.  Rockett.  "It's  twisted  round 
my  wrist!" 

Swearing  and  spitting,  Puss  made  a  dash  for  safety, 
and  mounted  a  water-butt  in  the  yard  of  the  Running 
Horse.  But  here  retreat  was  cut  off,  and  Punch  knew 
it.  He  followed,  straining  at  the  lead  and  Mrs.  Rockett. 
There  was  a  momentary  tussle;  but  circumstances  and 
Punch  were  too  strong  for  her — spinning,  swaying,  stag- 
gering, she  was  pulled  after  him  into  the  yard. 

Punch  would  have  followed  a  cat  even  to  the  kennel  of 
Cerberus.  He  sprang  at  the  butt.  For  an  awful  moment 
Mrs.  Rockett  pictured  herself  (like  Ganymede)  soaring 
through  the  air.  The  maid  from  the  Ship  flung  her  broom, 
and  missed  Mrs.  Rockett  only  by  an  inch.  Some  one 
clutched  the  lady  by  the  skirts,  while  George  unfastened 
the  lead. 

Freed  from  his  burden,  Punch  made  a  still  more  des- 
perate leap  for  the  shrinking  cat.  But  now  Puss  found  a 
champion.  Bess,  hearing  the  commotion,  rushed  out,  and, 
thinking  only  of  the  rescue,  tried  to  save  it  from  its  ancient 
enemy. 

"Don't  touch  it,  Bess!"  cried  George,  but  was  too  late. 
The  cat  was  too  flustered  to  distinguish  friend  from  foe. 
Its  Day  of  Judgment  seemed  to  have  broken  the  peace  of 
a  pampered  and  slothful  life.  All  the  universe  was  sud- 
denly in  arms  against  it.  And  Bess,  rushing  in  bravely 
but  recklessly,  clapped  her  hand  the  next  second  to  a 
scratched  cheek. 


42  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

George  dragged  the  dog  back  by  the  collar,  and,  as 
the  cat  slunk  past  him,  kicked  it  savagely  across  the  yard. 

"Oh,  George,"  cried  Bess,  "you  shouldn't  have  kicked 
it  like  that!  Poor  thing!  Is  it  hurt?" 

"Hurt?  No  thanks  to  him  if  it  ain't  dead,"  said  the 
maid  from  the  Ship  vindictively,  glaring  at  George,  and 
embracing  the  fat,  torpid  body  of  her  pet.  "Nasty,  sav- 
age way  to  treat  a  poor  dumb  animal!" 

"  'Bout  as  dumb  as  you,  I  reckon,  your  cat  is,"  said 
George.  "Has  it  hurt  you,  Bess?  Let's  look." 

"No,  it's  nothing  much,"  said  Bess,  rather  shortly. 
"Mrs.  Rockett,  you'll  come  in  and  sit  down  a  minute, 
won't  you?" 

"Thank  you,  my  dear,"  gasped  Mrs.  Rockett.  "My 
heart's  all  going  pit-a-pat,  and  my  legs — there,  it's  given 
me  quite  a  turn;  I  haven't  run  like  that  since  I  was  a 
gel.  What  a  mercy,"  she  continued,  sinking  into  a  chair 
in  the  little  parlour,  "what  a  mercy  that  the  cat  didn't  go 
the  other  way!"  She  shuddered  at  the  mental  picture  of 
Punch  leaping,  with  her  in  tow,  down  on  to  the  beach,  of 
a  wild  steeplechase  over  ropes,  and  baskets,  and  anchors, 
and  wooden  breakwaters. 

A  dose  of  cordial  and  the  application  of  some  lotion 
to  her  wrist  revived  her.  "I  dreamt  last  night  that  some- 
thing was  going  to  happen,"  she  said  solemnly.  "Oh, 
you  naughty  dog,  Punch!  You're  getting  as  mischievous 
as  your  master.  What  do  you  think  I  found  this  morn- 
ing, my  dear?  You  know  that  little  bed  I  made  last  spring. 
Well,  all  the  flowers  are  dead — every  one  of  them.  Cap- 
tain Rockett  offered  to  do  some  weeding  for  me  last  night, 
and  he  pulled  the  flowers  up  by  mistake,  and  left  the 
weeds.  He  must  have  found  out  what  he'd  done,  because 
he  stuck  them  in  again  without  any  roots,  to  deceive 
me.  Really,  I'm  almost  glad  sometimes  when  he  goes 
away." 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  43 

Captain  Rockett  commanded  the  hoy  that  plied,  twice 
weekly,  between  London  and  Herne  Bay. 

"I  mustn't  stop  a  minute,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Rockett, 
"but  when  he  went  this  morning  he  told  me  to  be  sure 
and  come  round,  and  I  was  coming  when  Punch  met  the 
cat.  I  couldn't  believe  him  when  he  said  George  was 
back  safe  and  sound,  on  your  wedding  day,  too.  And  how 
did  you  enjoy  yourself,  George?"  Mrs.  Rockett  inquired 
about  the  war  as  she  had  inquired,  years  back,  about 
picnics  or  children's  parties,  on  the  day  following  the  event. 
"I  suppose  you'll  be  thinking  of  getting  married  now 
John's  set  the  example?  You  know,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
turning  to  Bess,  "I  always  used  to  fancy  there  was  some- 
thing between  you  and  George,  before  he  went  away.  I 
never  imagined  it  was  John  you  cared  about." 

Bess  coloured  and  smiled.  She  did  not  look  at  George, 
who  sat  moody  and  uncomfortable,  conscious  that  he  was 
not  quite  forgiven.  He  chafed  secretly  under  the  congrat- 
ulations on  the  wedding  that  followed. 

"John'll  make  you  a  good  husband,  my  dear;  I've 
known  him  since  he  was  a  little  boy,  and  I  always  have 
been  fond  of  John."  Her  voice  dropped  to  an  anxious 
whisper.  "Your  father's  not  back  yet,  I  suppose?  And 
he  doesn't  know?" 

"Not  yet,"  said  Bess,  and  her  face  clouded.  "He  comes 
back  from  London  this  evening." 

"Ah!  Well,  I  do  hope  he'll  be  reasonable  and  friendly 
when  he  sees  he  can't  alter  things.  Now  I  mustn't  stop 
any  longer.  Mother's  in  bed  again,  poor  dear.  Gracious! 
that's  never  half-past  twelve?" 

"I'll  see  you  safe  home,  Mrs.  Rockett,"  said  George, 
"in  case  Punch  takes  you  cat-chasing  again.  I  think 
I'll  go  over  to  Whitstable  then,  Bess,  and  see  Tom  and 
Mary." 

"Very  well,"  said  Bess. 


44  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Mrs.  Rockett  turned  again  as  she  reached  the  door. 
"Bless  me!"  she  exclaimed,  "I  quite  forgot!"  She  dived 
into  her  skirts,  and  brought  out  a  little  package.  "With 
our  love,  my  dear;  it's  a  silver  salt-cellar  for  you  and  John. 
I  hardly  liked  to  give  you  a  thing  that  was  hundreds  of 
years  old,  but  Captain  Rockett  said 

"Why,"  cried  Bess,  as  delighted  as  a  child,  "it's  Queen 
Anne!  I  like  it  ever  so  much  better  because  it's  old.  Look, 
George!" 

They  bent  over  the  present,  and  made  friends. 

George  saw  Mrs.  Rockett  to  her  door,  and  then  tramped 
across  the  cliffs  to  Whitstable.  His  sister  threw  up  ex- 
cited hands  at  his  coming — back  from  the  dead,  and  just 
in  time  for  dinner.  Tom  Dodson,  a  sandy-haired,  simple- 
faced  fellow,  came  in  beaming  from  the  shop.  The  chil- 
dren were  presented,  and  made  happy  with  small  French 
and  Spanish  coins.  After  a  narrow  escape  from  sitting 
on  the  baby's  bottle  George  was  safely  ensconced  in  the 
only  vacant  chair.  At  intervals  during  dinner  his  sister 
was  overcome  suddenly  by  the  oddity  of  his  return.  "  Fancy 
your  being  alive  after  all,  George! "  But  it  was  plain  enough 
that  her  whole  life  was  wrapped  up  in  her  own  small  cir- 
cle. She  asked  after  his  adventures  in  the  same  breath 
with  which  she  warned  a  baby  not  to  suck  his  boots.  She 
broke  off  in  the  thick  of  his  most  thrilling  recital  to  re- 
prove a  child,  to  kiss  and  make  well  some  damaged  limb. 
"Go  on,  George,  I'm  listening,"  she  would  say — "Yes, 
dear;  kind  uncle  to  give  Baby  such  a  pretty  thing." 
Father  and  mother  eyed  each  other  over  the  meal  like  young 
lovers.  Battles  of  marshals  and  generals  were  of  less 
interest  than  the  squabbles  of  little  children.  His  return 
to  life  was  less  marvellous  than  that  everyday  miracle  of 
birth,  which  had  brought  small  faces  that  could  smile  or 
cry  out  of  nothingness.  While  George  spoke  of  the  loot 
of  cities,  Tom  Dodson  would  run  from  his  cold  mutton  to 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  45 

the  shop,  and  come  back  jubilant  over  another  halfpenny 
profit  on  lard,  or  cheese,  or  tin  tacks. 

And  yet,  when  George  walked  back  at  sunset  along  the 
cliffs,  he  found  that  his  visit  had  touched  deep  memories 
and  shaped  thoughts  from  which  it  was  difficult  to  escape. 
He  felt  lonely.  Mary  in  her  home  reminded  him  again  of 
his  mother,  years  back,  when  they  were  all  children.  His 
sister  lacked  absolutely  the  quick  imagination  which  had 
filled  his  own  life  with  fierce  joys  and  terrors  and  wild  am- 
bitions. For  Dodson  he  had  always  felt  a  mild  contempt, 
and  had  wondered  that  these  two  could  draw  romance 
from  starry  nights  and  green  lanes  like  other  lovers.  Yet, 
so  long  after  marriage,  their  eyes  told  of  some  great  pos- 
session, some  quiet  happiness  that  he  lacked.  He  had  seen 
the  proud  and  happy  look  on  John's  face  when  he  came 
riding  to  the  inn,  bringing  with  him,  to  be  shut  fast  within 
the  doors  of  home,  all  the  colours,  all  the  glory  of  the 
world,  like  a  warrior  trailing  captured  banners  homeward. 
This  was  what  love  did  for  the  poor  man,  though  a  fool; 
he  had  no  money  to  purchase  romance,  neither  knowl- 
edge nor  imagination  to  tell  of  the  sweet,  aching  sadness 
of  old  times,  old  songs,  old  loves;  tied  to  his  hearth,  he 
could  not  wander  on  strange  seas,  tramp  the  heather  of 
far  hills,  walk  the  streets  of  glittering  cities,  taste  the 
sweetness  of  forest  and  mountain  at  dawn  or  sunset,  know 
the  lust  of  power,  the  wild  exultation  of  conquest;  yet 
an  answering  glance  from  a  woman's  eyes  made  him  free 
of  love's  kingdom,  and  all  these  things  were  added  unto 
him.  Here  were  his  triumphs;  here  his  splendours  of 
sunset  and  sunrise;  here  the  caught  rainbow,  the  sky's 
ending  found  at  last,  the  bloom  of  autumn  woods,  the 
blue  distance  of  the  mountains.  Flooding  into  his  homely 
life  came  all  these  colours;  stars  mirrored  in  the  pud- 
dles of  the  highway,  sunlight  caught  in  a  prism  and 
carried  home. 


46  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

Bess  might  have  meant  all  this  to  him.  He  might 
have  found  all  that  his  wanderings  had  hinted  at  in 
her  mysterious  eyes.  Children  might  have  come  to 
them;  children  with  eyes  like  hers,  with  dimpled  rosy 
cheeks.  .  .  . 

What  was  the  use  of  thinking?  John  had  won  her;  she 
was  his  brother's  wife.  Good  old  John! 

But  when  he  entered  the  inn-parlour,  he  remembered 
how  her  eyes  had  flashed  reproach  that  morning  and  her 
smile  of  peacemaking  over  Mrs.  Rockett's  present.  Bess 
was  alone,  stitching  busily  at  a  cluster  of  blue  ribbons  and 
a  mass  of  coloured  scraps. 

She   glanced    up,    smiling. 

"How  are  Tom  and  Mary  and  the  children,  George? 
Wasn't  she  delighted  to  see  you?  Do  you  know,  the  elder 
children  went  out  yesterday  morning  before  breakfast 
and  picked  heaps  of  wildflowers — heaps  and  heaps — to 
put  about  the  house  because  we  were  going  to  be  married. 
Wasn't  it  sweet  of  them?"  All  the  time  the  busy  needle 
went  stitch,  stitch,  stitch,  in  and  out  among  the  patch- 
work and  the  ribbons. 

George  picked  up  a  scrap  of  Indian  chintz  and  played 
with  it. 

"Yes,  Mary  told  me,"  he  said. 

"And  did  she  tell  you,"  asked  Bess,  with  the  needle  be- 
tween her  lips,  "what  little  George  said  the  other  Sunday, 
when  she  was  explaining  a  text  to  him?  She  was  saying 
how  none  of  us  are  strong  enough  by  ourselves,  but  must 
have  God  to  help  us.  'No  one,  mother?'  George  asked, 
wrinkling  up  his  forehead  in  that  queer  little  way  he  has. 
'No  one,  George,  not  even  the  strongest,  without  God 
helping  him.'  'Why,  not  even  a  big,  strong  soldier  like 
poor  Uncle  George  was,  mother?'  he  asked.  And  then  he 
thought  a  minute,  and  said,  'No,  I  specks  he  wasn't, 
'cause  he  got  killed.  But  when  I'm  a  man  I'll  go  and 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  47 

fight  the  Frenchies,  and  ask  God  to  help  me,  and  then 
I'll  kill  them.'  " 

"Yes,  Mary  told  me  that  too,"  said  George.  He  laughed. 
"I  reckon  the  French  won't  want  Must'  George  to  go  out 
after  them  yet  awhiles.  What  are  you  making,  Bess?" 

"Bows  for  the  pillows — see,"  she  said,  holding  up  a 
handful  of  little  ribbons.  "And  this  is  to  be  a  patchwork 
cushion  for  an  armchair.  This  is  for  John's.  I  must  make 
one  for  you  too,  if  you  like." 

"That  for  me!"  cried  John  heartily,  entering  from  the 
courtyard  door.  "What  is  it?  A  cap,  I  reckon?  Or  a 
pettycoat  (waistcoat)?  My  word,  I'll  look  smarter'n  the 
squire  or  the  passon  in  that  rig-out,  Bess.  They'll  be 
burning  me  for  a  pope  on  Guy  Fawkes'  Day  if  you  make 
me  wear  that  gear." 

"You  great,  silly  man,"  said  Bess,  laughing,  "I  don't 
want  you  to  wear  it.  It's  a  cushion  to  sit  on.  And  these 
are  ribbons  to  tie  on  the  pillows " 

"  Why,  I  shan't  sleep  a  wink  for  thinking  how  pretty  I 
look  in  bed,  Bess.  Seems  sort  of  waste  with  only  you  to 
see  me." 

She  pouted.  "  Now  you  shan't  have  them  or  the  cush- 
ions either  if  you  say  that.  I'll  give  them  all  to  George." 

"  Well,  don't  leave  no  pins  in,  lass."  He  laughed  again 
— a  great,  hearty,  happy  laugh — and  smoothed  her  hair 
fondly. 

"As  if  I  fastened  them  with  pins!"  she  said,  and  got  up 
to  clear  the  table  for  their  meal.  John  put  his  great  arm 
round  the  girl's  slim  waist,  and  kissed  her. 

"George,  I've  a  bone  to  pick  with  you,"  he  said,  still 
hugging  her.  "What  do  you  mean  by  letting  her  get 
scratched  like  that,  eh?  I  reckon  we  ought  to  kiss  the 
place  and  make  it  well." 

She  wriggled,  laughing  and  blushing.  "Don't,  John, 
don't,"  she  said,  trying  to  get  away. 


48  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"Don't  kiss  you?  My  word,  now!  I'll  do  it  six  times 
more  for  that.  What  is  it?  George?  Why,  George  don't 
matter;  he's  my  brother,  and  yours  too  now.  Here,  you 
missed  your  kiss  yesterday,  George,  not  being  at  the  wed- 
ding. Passon  kissed  her,  and  Tom  kissed  her,  and  I  reckon 
the  clerk— 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  he  didn't.    Don't  you  believe  him,  George." 

"  Well,  'tain't  fair  for  George  to  be  done  out  of  his  wed- 
ding kiss.  I'll  kiss  his  wife  when  he's  married  if  she's  half 
as  pretty  as  you,  Bess.  Come  on,  George,  do  your  duty." 

George  hesitated.  Bess  looked  on  the  defensive,  but  not 
so  much  so  that  she  would  not  yield  easily  to  a  bold  assault. 

"Come  on,  George,  now's  your  chance,"  cried  John, 
"I'll  hold  her.  She's  only  pretending  to  be  shy.  I  reckon 
you've  kissed  a  fair  daffy  of  girls  over  at  the  wars,  an  old 
soldier  like  you!" 

More  hesitation  would  have  looked  now  like  a  slur  on 
Bess,  standing  there  expectant,  so  pretty  and  winsome, 
and  only  half-reluctant.  George  felt  his  cheeks  burning. 
His  heart  beat  faster.  He  stepped  forward,  caught  the 
slim  wrist  of  the  hand  that  shielded  her  face,  put  his  other 
arm  round  her,  feeling  the  soft,  warm,  dainty  body  for  a 
moment  against  his  breast.  He  kissed  her  on  the  cheek — 
once,  twice. 

John  chuckled,  clapping  the  performance.  "  Now, 
you've  rumpled  my  hair,"  said  Bess,  pouting,  and  putting 
up  her  hands  with  the  quick,  impetuous  movement  once 
so  familiar.  "  I'll  have  to  go  all  the  way  upstairs — 

She  stopped,  listening,  and  the  heightened  colour  left 
her  face.  The  sound  of  heavy  feet  was  heard,  crossing  the 
taproom.  "Where's  your  master?"  shouted  a  thick,  angry 
voice.  They  heard  Delilah's  answer,  and  her  shriller  voice 
rang  with  a  note  of  battle. 

"Oh,  John,  it's  father!"  cried 

John  opened  the  door. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  taproom  fell  suddenly  silent,  like  a  little  world 
awaiting  storm.  Half-a-dozen  men,  interrupted  in 
their  evening  gossip  about  ploughs  and  politics,  fishing 
and  hop-dogs,  and  smut  and  collar,  sat  with  clays  half-way 
to  opened  mouths.  The  light  from  an  oil-lamp  hanging 
from  the  blackened  ceiling  shone  on  their  watching  eyes. 
The  shadow  of  Stebbings'  head  in  profile — sharp  nose, 
protruding  teeth,  a  haze  of  drooping  whisker — nodded 
fantastically  on  wall  and  ballad-sheet.  Every  one  knew 
the  meaning  of  the  visit;  they  waited,  expectant. 

Roger  Huntingdon  and  John  eyed  each  other  for  a  full 
half-minute.  George  and  Bess  stood  at  the  threshold  of 
the  parlour,  watching,  and  the  girl's  hand  caught  George's 
sleeve.  Her  touch  thrilled  through  him;  his  cheeks  still 
burned  after  the  kiss. 

A  greater  contrast  than  the  two  men  at  whom  all  were 
looking  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  find.  John  Kennett 
was  fair,  ruddy,  blue-eyed — nearly  a  head  taller  than  the 
man  whose  daughter  he  had  married.  Huntingdon's  low- 
crowned  beaver  did  not  entirely  hide  his  iron-grey  hair; 
his  face  was  swarthy,  and  wrinkled  and  crow's-footed  with 
long  years  of  scheming;  his  nose  strong  and  masterful;  his 
eyes — under  fierce,  shaggy  brows — hard  and  narrow.  He 
was  thick-set;  his  legs,  cased  in  high  riding-boots  white 
with  dust,  were  bowed  to  grip  horseflesh.  Over  the  white, 
crumpled  stock,  set  off  by  a  long  canary-yellow  waistcoat 
and  bottle-green  coat,  his  pouched  throat  sagged,  swelling 
and  reducing  like  a  frog's;  but  his  mouth  was  shut  tightly 
— savagely,  like  a  trap  fast  locked  to  hold  what  was  bit- 
ing and  chafing  within.  When  he  spoke  at  last,  it  was  in 
almost  a  sob  of  held  rage. 

4  49 


50  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"I  found  your  message  waiting  for  me,"  he  gasped, 
"and  I've  come  to  drink  a  toast  to  your  wedding.  Hol- 
lands, I'll  take.  Come,  are  you  going  to  serve  me?  Hol- 
lands, I  said — it's  your  darned  trade  to — no,  no,  not  yet." 
He  broke  off  in  growled  admonitions  to  himself,  and  stood 
muttering,  while  John,  mastering  an  impulse  to  refuse, 
poured  out  the  spirit. 

"I'm  sure  we'll  take  it  very  kindly  of  you,  Mr.  Hunt- 
ingdon," said  John,  "if  you'll  give  us  your  good  wishes 
and  be  friends.  What's  done  can't  be  altered.  I  know  I 
don't  deserve  Bess;  'tisn't  only  by  birth  that  she's  better 
than  me.  But  a  girl  has  a  right  to  choose  her  own  hus- 
band, and  a  man  his  wife.  God  knows,  I'll  try  and  be  a 
good  man  to  her." 

He  stopped,  for  Huntingdon,  ignoring  him  completely, 
eyed  the  contents  of  the  room  under  his  shaggy  brows — 
the  beer-stained  tables,  the  yellow  clock,  the  chipped  and 
battered  tankards,  the  homely  faces  of  fishermen  and 
peasants  among  whom  his  daughter  was  to  live  her  life — 
eyed  them  with  pitiless,  contemptuous  scrutiny.  He 
walked  up  to  a  fly-specked  ballad-sheet  on  the  wall  to  peer 
at  it  more  closely.  His  riding  crop,  gripped  in  hands 
thrust  behind  his  back,  jerked  spasmodically. 

John  Kennett's  face  grew  brick-red  at  this  merciless 
assessment  of  his  home.  He  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that 
some  sinister  resolve  lay  under  Huntingdon's  call  for 
spirits  in  which  to  drink  their  health.  For  the  sake  of 
Bess  he  remained  silent,  and  hoped  that  her  father 
meant,  in  the  end,  to  give  a  grudging  assent  to  the 
inevitable. 

At  last  Huntingdon  took  up  the  glass  that  was  waiting 
for  him  on  the  little  counter.  "How  much?"  he  asked. 

"You  can  drink  our  healths  at  my  expense,  Mr.  Hunt- 
ingdon, and  welcome.  I'm  not  so  poor  that  I  can't  afford 
that." 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  51 

Huntingdon  flung  down  a  coin,  which  lay  on  the  coun- 
ter where  it  fell.  For  a  second  the  spirit  tossed  in  the 
glass  held  by  his  shaking  hand. 

Something  ominous  in  his  face  made  Bess  come  forward 
before  he  spoke.  "Oh,  father,"  she  said,  holding  her  hus- 
band's arm,  "I'm  so  glad  you  will  drink  our  healths.  I 
hope  you'll  shake  hands  with  John  now,  and — and — oh, 
it'll  be  so  nice  all  to  be  friends.  I  really  couldn't  help 
marrying  him;  I  couldn't  indeed.  A  girl  can't  miss  love, 
you  know;  it's  the  best  life  has  for  us.  You  wouldn't  like 
me  to  be  miserable  always,  just  because  my  ancestors 
were  such  grand  folk?  We  had  to  marry  like  this;  but 
now  it's  done,  and  I'll  even  say  I'm  sorry  if  you  like — 
at  least,  I'll  promise  never  to  do  it  again,  and  always  be 
a  loving  daughter " 

Huntingdon  raised  his  glass  to  his  lips.  "Here's  the 
toast  I  give  you!"  he  cried,  in  a  great  bellow,  like  a  bull 
goaded  into  uncontrollable  yet  impotent  wrath.  "Here's 
my  toast!  May  my  curse  light  on  you  and  follow  you  in 
living  and  in  dying!  May  you  be  cursed  in  house  and 
stable,  in  field  and  highway,  in  eating  and  drinking,  in 
getting  and  spending!  May  you  live  until  life  is  bitter, 
until  you  hate  and  cannot  part;  may  God  send  you  sick- 
ness, hunger,  poverty,  thirst — and  no  one  help  you — and 
all  faces  set  like  flints  against  you " 

"Stop!"  cried  John.  "I'll  not  have  you  say  these  things 
before  my  wife.  You'll  be  sorry,  Mr.  Huntingdon,  for  all 
you  say  in  your  anger.  It's  folly,  I  know;  yet  I'll  not 
have  Bess  frightened  by  you.  Go  in,  lass,  go  in;  he  can 
say  what  he  likes  to  me " 

"I'm  not  frightened,"  said  Bess,  with  a  little  shiver  of 
excitement.  "As  if  God,  who's  been  so  good  to  us,  will 
listen  to  it!  Father,  I'm  sorry  for  you  that  you  can  have 
such  thoughts,  but  you  don't  mean  what  you  are  say- 
ing  " 


52  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Huntingdon  had  stopped,  choking;  he  gulped  at  the 
spirit. 

"Mean  it?  By  God,  I  do  mean  it.  May  others  come 
between  you  and  your  love — or  lust,  'tis  the  same  thing — 
and  if  you  have  children,  may  they  be  born  under  my 
curse,  spavined,  wry-limbed,  a  burden,  a  disgrace,  foul- 
living,  hating  you  that  brought  them  into  the  world, 
hateful  to  you " 

"Father!     Father!"  cried  Bess. 

"Here,  I've  had  enough  of  that,"  said  John,  striding 
forward.  "I've  borne  with  it  too  long.  Unless  you  keep 
a  decent  tongue  in  your  head  you  don't  stay  in  my  inn, 
Mr.  Huntingdon.  I  make  allowances.  You're  eaten  up 
with  foolish  pride,  and  I  know  it's  a  sore  blow  to  you  that 
we're  wedded.  I  know  I'm  not  half  good  enough  for  Bess; 
but  she's  chosen  me  of  her  own  will,  and,  if  I  haven't 
wealth  or  birth  equal  to  yours,  I'm  an  honest  man  and  a 
God-fearing,  and  I've  a  home  to  give  her  where  she'll 
never  want;  and  no  more  love  could  the  richest  lord  in 
England  bring  her  than  what  I  do.  If  you  come  when  you'm 
calm  again  and  reasonable,  we'll  make  you  kindly  welcome, 
Bess  and  I,  and  say  not  another  word  of  what's  passed 
to-night.  But  I'll  listen  to  no  more  curses,  though  I  fear 
them  no  more  than  I  do  you." 

Huntingdon's  rage  sprang  suddenly  from  word  to  deed. 
Before  he  quite  realised  his  own  action,  he  struck  with 
the  lash  of  his  crop  at  the  face  so  near  his  own. 

A  white  wheal  marked  the  force  of  the  blow. 

"All  right,  Bess,"  said  John,  with  a  forced  and  painful 
calmness.  "I'll  not  hit  you  back,  Mr.  Huntingdon.  You're 
an  older  man,  and  Bess's  father,  when  all's  said;  and  I 
reckon  our  Master  tells  us  to  turn  the  other  cheek  to  the 
smiter.  You  may  strike  again  if  you've  the  mind,  and 
I'll  not  hit  you.  But  I'll  have  no  more  cursing  and  the 
taking  of  God's  name  for  your  wicked  threatenings. 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  53 

Another  word  like  those  you've  said,  and  I'll  turn  you  out 
of  the  inn  with  no  more  force  than  you  compel  me  to." 

"You  white-livered  cur!"  growled  Huntingdon.  "Strike 
you  again?  By  God,  I  will,  and  horsewhip  the  girl  after 
you " 

He  raised  the  crop;  George  sprang  forward. 

"By  God,  you  won't!"  he  cried.  "Not  if  I  know  it!" 
He  snatched  the  crop,  already  drawn  back  for  the  second 
blow,  and  wrenched  it  suddenly  from  the  man's  grasp. 
There  was  the  snap  of  splitting  wood;  resting  the  lash 
end  against  the  floor,  he  broke  it  to  pieces  under  his  heavy 
boot.  He  caught  up  the  severed  fragments.  "Out  you 
go,  now,  you  and  your  whip  as  well,"  he  cried. 

"Ay,  you'd  better  go,  Must'  Huntingdon,"  echoed  two 
or  three  men,  who  had  watched  with  smouldering  resent- 
ment that  flamed  into  active  wrath  as  George  Kennett's 
flashed  out.  They  closed  round  him.  John  Kennett 
stood  by  Bess,  with  the  livid  mark  of  the  lash  still  on  his 
cheek. 

Huntingdon  stood  irresolute,  half-defiant,  the  sagging 
throat-glands  working.  George  began  to  whip  off  his  coat. 

"Go?  Yes,  I'm  going.  I've  said  what  I  wanted  and 
what  I  mean.  Open  the  door,  there.  Let's  have  some  air 
after  this  beer-stinking  hole." 

Huntingdon  flung  himself  out,  and  slipped  the  bridle 
of  his  cob  from  the  staple  to  which  he  had  fastened  it  on 
entering  the  inn.  They  heard  the  squeak  of  leather  as  he 
swung  into  the  saddle,  the  furious  clatter  of  hoofs  dying 
away  in  the  quiet  night. 

George  flung  the  splintered  fragments  of  the  crop  far 
out  on  to  the  shingle,  and  slammed  the  door. 

Bess's  face  grew  suddenly  crimson;  she  put  up  her 
hands,  and  went  quickly  into  the  little  room. 

"  Bess,  lass,"  whispered  John  anxiously,  going  after  her, 
and  closing  the  door  behind  them,  "doan't  cry,  now, 


54  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

doan't."  He  flung  himself  down  on  the  couch  beside  her, 
and  kissed  the  dark  head  buried  in  the  cushion  she  was 
making  to  beautify  their  home.  "It's  over,  and  no  harm 
done.  Hard  words  doan't  break  no  bones."  He  put  his 
arm  round  her;  kissed  away  the  rising  tears;  held  her  until 
her  heaving  bosom  had  grown  calm  again,  and  long  after. 
"He's  angry  now;  but  'twill  soon  blow  over,  and  he'll 
be  sorry  for  what  he's  said.  And  we've  got  each  other, 
and  that  means  everything  in  the  wide  world  to  us." 

Out  in  the  taproom,  where  George  was  angrily  helping 
Delilah  to  collect  the  tankards  before  closing  for  the  night, 
Stebbings  nodded  his  head  vigorously  for  a  minute,  and 
then  broke  the  silence. 

"  Thank  the  Lord  I  don't  put  up  for  being  gentry!"  he 
said.  "A  cruel  shame,  I  call  it,  to  say  such  things  to  one's 
own  child,  just  for  marrying  where  her  heart  tells  her. 
Disgrace  to  his  family,  I  suppose!  Fine  family  that's 
been — dicing  and  cock-fighting,  and  knocking  about  inno- 
cent, peaceful  folk  in  London  streets.  Well,  curses  come 
home  to  roost,  they  say,  and  Roger  Huntingdon'll  see 
some  of  his  own  back  if  the  saying's  true.  Curses  never 
done  much  harm  yet  to  the  people  they've  been  flung  at. 
They'm  like  the  sticks  the  niggers  throw — boomyrangs, 
I  think  Cap'n  Rockett  called  them — and  come  back  to 
the  throwers." 

Delilah  shook  her  head  dismally.  "We'll  hope  so,  I'm 
sure,"  she  said.  "But  the  Bible  believed  in  cursing,  it 
did.  Jacob  was  feared  of  his  feyther's  curse;  and  Jotham 
cursed  the  men  of  Shechem — and  it  corned  to  pass  as  he 
said.  I  heared  about  that  only  last  Sunday." 

"Well,  Roger  Huntingdon  ain't  Jotham,  and  John  and 
Mrs.  Kennett  ain't  men  of  Shechem  neither,"  said  an  old 
fisherman,  as  they  trooped  out.  "And  there's  plenty  to 
wish  'em  well  in  spite  of  all  Huntingdon  can  say.  A  regu- 
lar old  she  I  call  him,  starf  take  him!  Anyway,  I  reckon 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  55 

blessing's  as  powerful  as  cursing,  and  I'll  bless  'em  both  as 
hard  as  I  can,  all  my  way  home." 

George  locked  the  outer  door,  and  went  into  the  par- 
lour. John  was  pacing  the  room,  alone. 

"The  little  lass  has  gone  up  to  bed,"  he  said,  as  his 
brother  entered.  He  had  lit  his  pipe,  and  was  puffing  at  it 
furiously.  "Houghed  shame,"  he  said,  under  his  breath, 
"to  make  her  cry  like  that!  I — I — it's  all  very  well,"  he 
broke  out,  "being  Christian  and  forgiving,  but  I'm  a'most 
sorry  I  didn't  knock  him  down  then — trying  to  frighten 
her  with  those  play-acting  curses!" 

"I  reckon  I  would  have,"  said  George. 

"  It  isn't  as  if  I  hadn't  asked  him  for  her  first,  neither. 
I  did  the  fair  thing  about  that.  When  he  said  no,  'twasn't 
likely  she'd  let  herself  be  sold  like  a  slave  in  the  planta- 
tions— or  I'd  stand  by  and  see  it  done.  He  told  me  plain 
that  that  was  what  he  meant.  'She's  for  a  better  man 
than  you,  John  Kennett/  he  said.  'She's  for  a  gentle- 
man, she  is.  Mr.  Akenside's  to  have  her,  and  he'll  take 
our  name  when  he's  wed.  His  lands  join  mine;  they  were 
ours  once.'  'But  she  won't  have  him,  sir,'  said  I.  'She'll 
have  who  I  tell  her  to,'  he  yelled.  I  reckon  he  didn't 
know  Bess." 

John  flung  himself  into  a  chair.  For  a  time  the  two 
brothers  smoked  in  silence. 

Roger  Huntingdon's  ancestors  had  been  gentlemen- 
farmers  in  the  neighbourhood  for  many  generations.  His 
father,  Anthony  Huntingdon,  had  inherited  a  good  es- 
tate; but  he  had  been  fonder  of  the  society  of  men  with 
wider  means  than  his  own  than  of  the  quiet  country  life 
which  had  contented  his  forebears.  Almack's,  White's, 
and  Raggett's  knew  him  in  his  younger  days;  he  hung 
on  the  fringe  of  the  Prince's  wild  circle  in  town  and  water- 
ing-place; he  cared  more  for  cock-fighting  and  wine  and 
cards  than  for  the  rotation  of  crops.  In  later  years  his 


56  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

doors  were  open  to  all  comers,  his  house  like  that  Bo- 
kharan  palace  where  the  gates,  nailed  to  the  walls,  wel- 
comed all  who  chose  to  enter  by  day  or  night.  What  the 
bucks  of  London  and  Bath  and  Brighton  had  begun  the 
squires  and  yeomen  of  Kent  ended.  He  diced  away  his 
wife's  fortune  and  his  ancestral  fields. 

When  Anthony  Huntingdon  lost  his  bet  with  the  doc- 
tor that  he  would  pull  through  an  illness,  Roger,  then  a 
lad,  took  the  battered  hatchment  from  the  lumber  room 
and  hung  it  before  his  door.  "  He  hasn't  diced  away  coat 
armour,"  he  muttered,  as  he  fixed  it;  and  this  incident 
and  this  remark  showed  the  whole  aim  of  his  life.  He  set 
to  work  strenuously  to  retrieve  the  family  fortunes.  By 
every  means  in  his  power,  by  the  severest  toil,  the  acutest 
intelligence,  the  most  rigid  economy,  he  paid  off  the  en- 
cumbrances on  the  house,  and  won  back,  gradually,  field 
after  field.  His  whole  interest  in  life  was  to  bring  himself 
once  more  into  line  with  the  old  county  families,  who, 
many  of  them,  had  been  enriched  by  his  father's  folly, 
and  now  looked  down  on  the  Huntingdons'  reduced  for- 
tunes. A  marriage,  contracted  on  his  part  for  money,  on 
the  other  for  love  of  a  strong  and  ambitious  and  deter- 
mined man,  helped  him  in  this.  A  son  was  born,  and  his 
joy  was  unbounded.  His  heir  should  inherit,  not  only 
the  estate  which  Anthony  Huntingdon  had  gamed  away, 
but  lands  owned  by  their  family  when  the  Tudors  were 
on  the  throne  of  England. 

The  boy  died  when  he  was  three  years  old. 

Bess,  then  just  beginning  to  prattle,  was  the  only  other 
child  born  to  Roger  Huntingdon  and  his  wife.  As  years 
went  on,  poor  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  a  pretty,  timid,  loving, 
clinging  woman,  was  made  to  feel  that  she  had  disappointed 
him,  and  endured,  rarely  complaining,  the  brunt  of  his 
bitter,  sarcastic  nature.  To  Bess  he  was  more  gracious. 
Unless  his  wife  was  so  obliging  as  to  die — a  civility  she 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  57 

often  promised  by  delicate  health,  but  managed  to  avoid 
paying  him — unless  that  happened,  and  he  could  marry 
again  and  have  a  son,  Bess  would  inherit  all  that  he  pos- 
sessed. She  should  marry  well,  retaining  her  own  name, 
and  have  a  brood  of  stout  young  Huntingdons  to  carry  on 
the  fortunes  of  his  race. 

With  his  eyes  on  this  future,  Roger  added  guinea  to 
guinea,  field  to  field,  cottage  to  cottage.  His  only  extrav- 
agance lay  in  improving  his  holding  and  his  house.  The 
black  horses  that  brought  wealth  out  of  the  soil  for  him 
were  the  best  procurable;  he  paid  for  the  best  labour,  and 
saw  to  it  himself  that  men  and  horses  were  at  their  work 
not  a  minute  later  than  six  every  morning  by  his  watch; 
where  other  farmers  spent  £3  in  stocking  and  keeping  up 
an  acre  of  ground,  he  would  spend  £5,  and  all  the  imple- 
ments used  on  his  farm — down  to  the  very  peelers  used  to 
set  the  hop-poles — were  the  finest  that  money  could  pro- 
cure. 

And  it  was  currently  reported  that  good  harvests  and 
careful  farming  were  not  the  only  causes  of  Roger  Hunt- 
ingdon's growing  success.  Men  said  that  the  ponds  in  his 
meadows  sometimes  held  their  secrets;  and  his  black  horses, 
that  ploughed  the  soil  innocently  by  day,  had  other  work 
to  do  by  night,  when  they  carried  smuggled  goods  inland 
through  the  Kentish  lanes.  In  the  height  of  Napoleon's 
power,  it  was  more  than  hinted  that  Roger  Huntingdon 
had  a  hand  in  that  very  profitable  and  unpatriotic  business, 
the  smuggling  of  gold  across  Channel,  to  pay  the  imperial 
troops.  He  was  too  cautious  a  man  to  let  Craddock  or 
his  men  get  wind  of  such  doings.  But  sometimes,  lying 
awake  at  night,  Bess  would  hear  gruff  voices  in  the  room 
below;  once,  looking  out  of  her  little  window  by  the  light 
of  winter  stars,  she  saw  her  father  going  down  towards 
the  white  gate  with  a  couple  of  seafaring  men  in  great 
waders  white  with  salt,  and  heard,  two  minutes  later,  the 


58  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

crack  of  whips  and  a  clatter  of  hoofs  on  the  Canterbury 
road. 

In  a  notable  summer,  when  Bess  was  a  little  girl  of 
twelve,  the  old  house  was  put  into  the  builders'  hands  for 
repairs;  and  for  two  or  three  weeks  Mrs.  Huntingdon  and 
she  went  to  stay  at  the  Running  Horse  at  Herne  Bay, 
while  Huntingdon  stayed  at  the  farm  to  keep  an  eye  on 
the  workmen.  Bess  inherited  her  mother's  dark  beauty 
and  sweetness  of  disposition,  but  not  a  little  also  of  her 
father's  determined  will.  This  showed  itself  on  the  first 
day  of  their  visit.  Her  mother's  weak  attempt  at  exert- 
ing authority,  now  that  the  father's  was  removed,  was 
checkmated  by  Bess's  seating  herself  deliberately  on  the 
edge  of  a  boat  which  George  Kennett  had  just  been  paint- 
ing; returning  in  all  the  glory  of  red  and  blue  stripes  to 
the  inn,  she  gained  the  privilege,  by  this  move,  of  discard- 
ing her  prim  frock,  and  tumbling  in  homelier  dress  among 
the  children.  Many  a  delightful  ramble  the  boys  had  with 
their  little  visitor,  and  their  friendship  was  continued  after 
her  return.  George,  always  more  assertive  than  his  brother, 
took  the  lead  in  these  expeditions  to  shaw,  or  down,  or 
river.  While  her  father  was  busy  in  his  fields,  Bess 
kept  many  an  appointment  at  the  white  gate  which  was 
their  trysting-place.  Sometimes,  in  the  hot  summer 
days,  she  would  come  down  to  Herne  Bay  for  a  dip  in 
charge  of  the  plump  bathing-woman,  and  scamper  after- 
wards with  the  lads  on  to  the  downs,  shaking  the  drops 
of  glistening  sea-water  from  her  hair  as  she  ran — as  pretty 
a  picture  of  young  health  and  grace  as  ever  entered  the 
galleries  of  lads'  memories. 

If  Roger  Huntingdon  knew  of  this — and  he  must  have 
guessed — he  said  nothing  until  Bess  had  nearly  reached 
her  sixteenth  year.  Then  she  found  herself  suddenly  under 
closer  guardianship.  When  George  Kennett  came  from 
the  depot  of  the  Riflemen  at  Hythe  to  say  good-bye,  she 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  59 

escaped  for  a  few  hours,  meaning  nothing  more  serious 
than  a  renewal  of  old  friendship.  She  was  little  more 
than  a  child,  chafing  against  restraint  after  years  of  wild 
freedom.  His  pleadings,  aided  by  the  uniform,  the  glam- 
our of  travel  and  war  from  which  he  might  not  return, 
his  vivid  pictures  of  a  glorious  home-coming,  spring  and 
a  violet  sky — a  dozen  influences,  many  contradictory, 
many  not  understood,  made  her  give  him  a  half-reluctant 
promise.  But  late  that  night,  looking  out  through  the 
green  leaves  of  the  creeper  growing  round  her  little  window, 
Bess  surprised  a  half-formed  wish  that  it  had  been  John 
instead,  and  reproved  herself  sharply,  and  told  herself 
again  and  again,  with  suspicious  emphasis,  that  this  mix- 
ture of  admiration,  and  affection,  and  regret,  and  anxiety, 
was  really  the  love  that  she  had  read  and  heard  about. 

George,  sitting  now  with  his  brother  in  the  parlour  of 
the  Running  Horse,  was  thinking  again  of  that  spring 
evening.  Then  his  dreams  of  glory  had  made  light  of  all 
obstacles.  In  the  excitement  of  home-coming  he  had 
brushed  them  aside  again  almost  without  a  thought  when 
he  had  paused  for  a  moment  at  the  white  gate  on  his  way 
from  Sturry  to  the  inn.  But  Huntingdon's  objections  to 
his  brother  would  have  applied  with  equal — or  with  greater 
— force  to  himself. 

"I  reckon  we're  as  good  as  Huntingdon  is,  any  day!" 
he  broke  out  suddenly,  knocking  out  his  pipe  on  the  hob. 
"Or  Akenside!  Nice  time  Bess  would  have  had  with  him! 
If  he's  what  he  used  to  be,  he'd  think  more  of  his  horses 
or  his  dogs  than  he  would  of  her — a  damned  sight  more. 
Give  him  his  honest  choice  between  a  day's  ratting  and  a 
day's  marrying,  and  I  reckon  I  know  which  he'd  choose. 
He's  got  his  eyes  on  Huntingdon's  land  and  live  stock,  that's 
what  it  is,  John.  ...  I  wish  I'd  thrown  Huntingdon  out 
along  of  his  crop,  I  do.  Blustering  about  like  that,  and 
looking  at  every  one  and  everything  as  if  they  were  dirt!" 


60  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"Ay,  that  angered  me  too,"  said  John,  and  his  fists 
clenched  and  unclenched.  "I  knew  he'd  be  angry,  of 
course;  but  there  was  no  call  to  try  and  make  her  discon- 
tented with  her  home  by  eyeing  everything  that  fashion. 
What  we've  got  was  good  enough  for  mother.  But  of 
course  Bess  has  been  brought  up  different,"  he  added, 
musing. 

"  Tisn't  the  first  time  she's  been  here,  though,"  said 
George. 

"No.  I  reckon "  John  broke  off,  and  pulled  hard 

at  his  pipe,  thinking  with  knitted  brows.  After  all,  Bess 
had  known  what  he  had  to  give  her.  She  had  made  her 
own  choice.  He  shook  off  the  uneasy  fear  lest  in  time, 
however  unwillingly,  she  might  grow  dissatisfied  with  her 
surroundings.  "I've  been  thinking  of  spending  a  pound 
or  two,  though,  George,"  he  said  suddenly,  "to  brighten 
the  old  place  up  a  bit  for  the  little  lass.  And,  speaking 
of  money,  that  reminds  me  of  something  I've  got  to  talk 
over  with  you.  Mother  had  a  little  besides  the  inn — about 
three  hundred  pound — and  now  you've  come  back  you'll 
have  to  have  your  share  of  it;  as  you  would  if  she'd  known 
you  were  still  alive.  There's  the  inn  too;  half's  yours  by 
rights,  I  reckon,  and  we  must  fix  up  something  fair  and 
square,  as  between  brothers.  Bess  and  I  were  thinking 
things  over  last  night.  What's  your  idea,  George?  Will 
you  stay  on  at  the  inn,  and  help  with  the  work  of  it?  Of 
course  you're  welcome  if  you  will;  or  perhaps  you'd 
rather — but  of  course  there's  no  hurry  to  decide." 

George  was  surprised  and  touched  by  his  brother's 
plain  facing  of  the  change  which  his  return  made  in  the 
disposal  of  their  mother's  little  fortune. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  say  exactly,  John,"  he  said, 
"except  that  it  isn't  every  brother  who'd  be  so  ready  to 
do  the  square  thing.  I'm  not  sure  whether  I  ought  to  take 
the  money.  In  the  eyes  of  the  law,  I  suppose  I'm  still 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  61 

dead  and  buried  at  Toulouse;  and  perhaps  it  wouldn't  be 
the  easiest  thing  to  prove  I've  come  to  life  again.  I  don't 
know.  Of  course  I'd  like  to  stay  on  at  the  inn  just  now, 
at  all  events,  and  help.  You  say  Bess  is  willing?" 

"Willing  and  more'n  willing,"  said  John  heartily.  "And 
you  know  I  am.  We'll  be  a  happy  family — Bess,  and  you, 
and  me,  and  'Lilah,  and  old  Blossom,  all  together.  I'd  have 
to  get  a  man  in,  too,  before  very  long,  if  you  didn't  stop." 

"  Well,  I'll  stay  then,  so  that's  settled.  I've  had  enough 
of  wandering  for  a  bit.  Seems  to  me  you  can  go  all  over 
the  world  looking  for  fortune  and  that  like;  and  all  the 
time  happiness  is  sitting  in  your  own  chimney-corner. 
You  can  give  me  board  and  wittles,  and  a  guinea  or  so  if 
I'm  worth  it.  But  the  money  mother  left — you'd  better 
keep  that,  John." 

"Not  I!"  said  John  stoutly.  "I  don't  want  a  penny- 
piece  more'n  my  own.  You'd  better  come  to  Canterbury 
with  me  in  a  day  or  two,  and  see  the  lawyers.  I  want  to 
get  a  little  money  out,  to  buy  a  few  things  to  brighten  the 
place  up  a  bit;  some  pictures,  and  new  tankards,  and  a 
little  furniture,  and  such  like." 

George  reflected.  "Look  here,  John,"  he  said  at  last, 
"I  reckon  we'd  better  club  together,  and  lay  our  money 
out  on  the  inn.  You  can't  do  much  good  in  trade  without 
outlay." 

"What,  all  of  it?"  John  stared  in  astonishment.  "It 
won't  take  more'n  a  few  pounds " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  only  pictures  and  chairs  and  tankards. 
But,  now  the  war's  over,  we'll  see  changes;  Herne  Bay 
won't  always  be  a  sleepy  little  place  like  it  is  now.  It  seems 
to  me  there's  the  beginning  of  a  fortune  in  the  Running 
Horse,  if  we're  smart  enough  to  look  ahead  a  bit  and  get 
ready  for  what's  going  to  happen." 

John  looked  dubious,  and  at  last  shook  his  head.  "Safer 
to  keep  it  for  a  rainy  day,  George,"  he  said.  "They've 


62  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

been  prophesying  great  things  for  years  past,  directly  the 
wars  were  over;  but  I  can't  see  much  improvement  yet. 
Trade's  as  bad  as  it  can  be.  I  don't  want  to  run  no  risks." 

"No,  but  still — well,  there's  no  hurry;  I  just  thought  of 
it,  though." 

They  knocked  out  their  pipes,  and  went  upstairs.  Out- 
side John's  door  the  two  brothers  gripped  hands. 

"Good-night,  John,  old  fellow,"  said  George. 

"Good-night,  George.  My  word!  I'm  glad  you're 
back." 

He  entered;  the  latch  clicked,  shutting  him  in  with  Bess 
— shutting  out  George  and  his  dreams. 

He  lay  long  awake,  thinking.  Once  more  his  thoughts 
jumped  difficulties  and  the  years. 


CHAPTER   V 

QUIET  days  followed  at  the  inn:  glorious  summer 
days,  with  light  winds  singing  on  the  sea,  and 
the  fleeciest  of  white  clouds  casting  faint  shadows  over 
corn-fields,  and  green  downs,  and  dusty  roads.  George 
bathed  under  the  jolly  round  face  of  the  sun;  he 
renewed  old  friendships;  he  helped  in  the  house  and  in 
the  stable.  It  was  pleasant  to  sleep  again  with  the 
murmur  of  the  sea  in  his  ears;  to  wake  looking  out 
over  blue  water,  with  a  white-sailed  frigate,  perhaps, 
or  a  fishing  boat  bringing  home  her  silver  spoils,  framed 
in  his  little  window,  like  a  rich  man's  picture.  It  was 
pleasant,  too,  to  hear  his  brother's  loud,  hearty,  wel- 
coming voice  when  he  came  in  to  meals;  to  chat  in  the 
evenings  over  war  or  politics  or  local  matters  with  the 
guests  in  the  taproom;  even  to  listen  to  Delilah's  rigid 
views,  and  to  shock  and  please  her  at  the  same  time  with 
tales  of  horror.  Delilah  had  kept  his  early  years  ringed 
round  with  "don'ts"  and  "mustn'ts,"  and,  true  to  a 
gloomy  and  narrow  creed,  had  sent  him  often  to  his  bed 
in  trembling  yet  half-rebellious  fear  of  hell  and  judgment. 
Now  he  could  hold  his  own  against  her,  and  it  amused  him 
to  oppose  his  experience  to  her  views. 

But  pleasantest  of  all  was  it  to  see  Bess,  fresh  as  the 
dawn,  greeting  him  good-morning;  to  sit  next  her  at  table; 
to  talk  to  her  while  her  deft  fingers  kept  the  needle  busy; 
to  watch  the  sparkle  of  her  eyes — just  as  he  had  done 
years  back — when  he  told  her  stories  of  endurance,  of 
strength,  and  of  valour. 

Sunday  came,  and  seemed  to  set  a  seal  on  his  resolu- 
tions of  amendment.  During  the  war  the  days  had  run 
on  unbroken  into  months,  to  the  tune  of  drum  and  bugle 

63 


64  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

and  the  crash  of  arms.  One  of  his  most  excited  arguments 
with  Delilah  had  been  on  this  very  point;  she  defending 
Cuesta,  the  Spanish  General,  for  declining  to  break  the 
Sunday's  rest  by  fighting;  he,  laughing  loudly  at  his 
scruples.  But  the  oasis  in  the  busy  week  linked  him  more 
closely  to  his  childhood.  His  father  had  been  a  staunch 
churchman.  George  remembered  one  Sunday  when,  for 
some  forgotten  reason,  they  had  been  unable  to  go  out, 
and  John  Kennett  had  conducted  a  little  service  in  the 
parlour  for  his  wife  and  children.  He  recalled  the  breaks 
in  the  lesson,  when  his  father's  eye,  wandering  from  the 
book,  found  some  occasion  for  reproof.  "And  Moses 
said — George,  if  you  pull  that  cat's  tail  again,  you'll  go 
straight  to  bed! — unto  Aaron,  What  did  this  people  unto 
thee,  that  thou  hast  brought  so  great  a  sin  upon  themf  And 
Aaron  said,  Let  not  the  anger  of  my  lord  wax  hot:  thou 
knowest  the  people,  that  they  are  set  on  mischief — doan't 
bite  your  nails."  George,  very  small  then,  had  been  in 
an  agony  of  pent-up  laughter,  almost  hysterical,  because 
of  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion  and  the  fearful  danger  of 
discovery.  Turning  idly  the  leaves  of  the  old  Bible  on  this 
first  Sunday  of  his  return,  he  chanced  upon  the  very 
passage,  and  read  it  between  laughter  and  tears. 

Bess  and  John  and  he  went  to  Herne  Church,  leaving 
Delilah  to  keep  house.  They  passed  the  red  farm  at  Edding- 
ton,  very  quiet  behind  its  trees;  in  Herne  village  they 
peered  in  at  the  window  of  the  schoolroom,  where  John  and 
he  had  struggled  over  pot-hooks  and  hangers  and  the  queer- 
shaped  letters  had  pieced  themselves  into  words.  John 
was  the  scholar;  George  had  hated  the  dingy  school- 
books,  though  his  imagination  had  kept  some  few  shreds 
of  knowledge.  The  globes,  with  their  coloured  empires 
and  kingdoms — shifting  colour  so  fast  in  those  days,  as 
Napoleon  and  his  armies  changed  the  face  of  the  world — 
had  held  a  constant  fascination;  he  remembered  hitting 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  65 

on  obscure  names,  out-of-the-way  towns  and  villages,  far 
corners  in  the  great  blue  spaces  of  ocean,  and  wondering 
what  was  happening  just  there  at  that  moment,  whether 
armies  lay  encamped,  or  vessels  struggled  in  the  grip  of 
fierce  tempest,  on  seas  that  seemed,  in  the  corner  of  the 
quiet  schoolroom,  ever  peaceful.  From  the  histories,  too 
—Baker's  Chronicle,  chiefly,  a  work  worth  the  labour  of 
spelling  out — he  had  caught  glimpses  of  old  battles, 
faded  pageants,  glorious  tourneyings  in  arras-hung  lists, 
night  landings  of  captains  and  bowmen  on  strange  shores. 
Well ;  and  now  he  had  played  his  own  part  in  history, 
and  would  be  hidden  in  its  pages  with  unnumbered 
and  unnamed  hosts.  He  had  fought;  he  had  seen;  he 
knew. 

They  entered  the  church.  The  service,  the  familiar 
hymns,  the  droning  voice  of  the  preacher,  the  drowsy 
summer  atmosphere — how  they  bridged  the  years,  and  how 
potent  all  seemed  to  lay  the  ghosts  and  terrors  of  old  sins! 
The  words  meant  little  to  him.  For  long  years  the  names 
he  heard  worshipped  here  in  the  quiet,  peaceful  church, 
with  the  savour  of  mortality  and  change  and  decay  cling- 
ing to  its  pillars  and  cold  walls — these  names,  worshipped 
and  prayed  to  so  decorously,  he  had  heard  on  the  dry  lips 
of  men  cursing  in  hunger  and  thirst,  in  pain,  in  riot,  in 
mere  carelessness.  He  thought  of  one  man  after  another 
who  had  fallen  gasping  out  oaths  with  his  last,  choking 
breath.  He  listened  to  the  reverent  yet  mechanical  mutter 
of  the  creed.  "I  believe  in  God,  the  Father  Almighty — 
in  the  Resurrection  of  the  Body,  and  the  Life  Everlasting. 
Amen."  Would  those  dry  bones  live  again?  Those  men 
slain  on  that  moonlit  night  by  the  bridge  of  Barba  del 
Puerco?  Those  men  brown  and  shrivelled  on  the  black- 
ened earth  at  Talavera?  In  the  trenches  of  Ciudad  Rod- 
rigo?  Impaled  on  the  steel  ramparts  of  Badajoz?  That 

old  man,  that  young  Spaniard 

5 


66  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

He  shut  his  mind  against  this  memory.  He  was  here, 
in  Herne  Church;  and  now  Bess's  clear,  sweet  voice  was 
in  his  ears  as  they  sang.  But  if  they  did  live  again,  what 
tales — what  tales  to  be  told,  when  the  Judgment  Books 
were  opened  and  all  secrets  read! 

It  was  over — forgotten;  or  time  would  help  him  to  for- 
get. Not  the  names  they  worshipped,  not  the  creed,  not 
the  muttered  prayers — these  he  could  not  follow  or  under- 
stand— but  the  quiet  decorum  of  the  church,  the  memories 
of  childhood  it  brought  back,  the  orderly,  sober  trooping 
out  into  the  sunshine,  the  silent  graves  under  the  chest- 
nuts and  the  yews — all  these  were  peaceful,  soothing,  com- 
forting, and  like  some  inner  balm,  healing  the  wounds, 
making  whole  the  soul. 

He  stood,  bare-headed,  at  the  grave  where  his  mother 
and  father  had  been  laid  to  rest. 

As  the  three  passed  through  the  churchyard  into  the 
village,  his  eyes  caught  an  old  head-stone,  leaning  to  one 
side  with  age,  and  with  skulls  and  cross-bones  overgrown 
with  moss.  Tall  grass  covered  the  lower  part;  he  could 
just  make  out  the  name  and  the  first  part  of  the  inscrip- 
tion: 

"  The  wages  of  sin  is  death,  but " 

Tall  grass  covered  the  rest. 

Had  he  taken  his  wages?  Would  he  have  to  take  still 
the  uttermost  farthing  for  the  sins  committed?  He  shook 
himself  free  from  the  thought;  would  not  dwell  on  it  or 
his  memories;  and  hurried  down  the  road  under  the  great 
trees  after  John  and  Bess,  like  one  hurrying  from  relentless 
consequence,  pitiless  effect. 

Five  minutes  later — so  swiftly  did  his  moods  change — 
he  was  laughing  with  the  others  over  an  interview  with 
old  Pinion,  whom  they  overtook  as  he  was  hobbling  back 
from  church  to  Eddington.  Pinion  had  served  the  Hunt- 
ingdons,  as  man  and  boy,  since  George  the  Second's  reign; 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  67 

and  Roger  Huntingdon  still  paid  him  a  small  wage  to  do 
odd  jobs  about  the  farm,  and  play  the  part  of  family  re- 
tainer. George  asked  after  him,  and  then  his  wife. 

"Thankee,  Must'  George,  thankee.  Her  be  among  the 
middlin's,  too,"  he  said,  when  the  question  had  been  re- 
peated. "Tidn't  the  same  Mrs.  Pinion  you  knew,  though. 
Her  died  the  year  of  the  comet.  A  bad  year  for  me,  that 
was;  a  wery  bad  year.  First  her  took  bad  and  died;  and 
that  wasn't  the  worst,  for  then  I  lost  my  old  sow.  Fine 
breedin'  animal  her  was,  too;  I  had  many  a  litter  off  her. 
My  wife  died  only  dree  weeks  afore  that.  I  thoft  of  having 
her  stuffed,  I  did." 

Perhaps  it  was  George's  expression  that  made  Pinion 
hasten  to  explain  his  reference. 

"I  was  real  fond  of  that  sow,  I  was.  I  believe  her  died 
out  o'  spite,  'cause  I  whispered  the  death  to  the  bees,  and 
forgot  her."  Pinion  held  to  the  old  Kent  notion  of  whis- 
pering news  of  death  to  the  stock,  as  if  it  were  a  doctrine 
of  the  Church.  "I  got  another  wife,  a  did;  Bill  Barlow's 
widder;  married  her  and  her  cottage  same  day,  a  did — 
he,  he — married  her  and  t'cottage,  as  I  told  passon.  I 
bain't  a  vule,  though  a  be  seventy-dree.  But  I  ain't 
not  been  able  to  afford  another  sow,"  he  added  gloomily. 

"Is  she  buried  at  Herne,  Pinion?"  asked  George,  think- 
ing of  the  old  country-woman  who  had  often  given  him 
red-cheeked  apples  on  his  way  to  school. 

"Eh?"  Pinion  curled  a  knotted  hand  round  his  ear. 
"Buried?  No,  her  died  a  nachral  death,  her  did;  nothing 
the  matter  at  all  but  just  cussedness.  We  eat  her,  Mrs. 
Barlow  and  me  did.  Oh,  I  thoft  you  were  talking  of  the 
sow.  No,  her  be  buried  over  at  Swalecliffe.  I  painted 
the  board  myself — cost  me  twopence,  it  did.  'Elizabeth, 
wife  of  Job  Pinion.  In  Memory  of  the  Justice  Blessed.' 
Nice  tex,  that.  I  beared  it  at  a  funeral  service  when  fold 
squire  died,  and  lamed  it  rude-heart,  'cause  I  thoft  it'd 


68  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

do  for  Liza  when  her  time  corned.  I  kep  it  in  mind  all  them 
years.  Well,  Must'  Jarge,  there  be  rare  changes,  I  reckon, 
since  you  went  foreign.  They've  altered  everything  now 
— 'ligion  and  all.  I  mind  the  time  when  there  were  as 
many  smocks  as  broadcloth  coats  in  church,  and  the 
clatter  of  hobnails  was  fair  deafening.  Not  many  there 
this  morning,  though;  they've  thoft  out  new-fangled  ways. 
I  hold  by  the  old  church,  though,  I  do.  Tis  terrible  diffi- 
cult to  know  what  to  believe,  to  be  sure,  but  I  doan't  want 
to  take  no  risks — being  seventy-dree.  Not  but  what  I 
hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of  seein'  a  good  many  other 
folk  buried  yet,  though,"  he  added  hastily. 

"There  aren't  two  questions  about  what's  true,  though," 
said  John.  "You  keep  to  church  and  what  you've  been 
brought  up  to,  Pinion,  no  matter  what  other  folk  say  or 
do." 

"Ay,  ay,  I  mean  to.  I  baint  such  a  vule  as  to  run  risks 
at  my  time  of  life.  Good-mornin',  Must'  Kennett.  Good- 
mornin'."  He  touched  his  cap,  and  they  left  him  hob- 
bling in  the  rear,  with  a  puckered  smile  on  his  crafty, 
self-satisfied  old  face. 

"I  couldn't  help  laughing  at  him,"  said  Bess,  with  sud- 
den contrition,  "but  really,  one  oughtn't  to  let  him  talk 
like  that  about  his  poor  old  wife!  I  believe  he  understands 
much  more  than  he  pretends  to,  George;  and  he  only  says 
these  things  to  get  us  to  laugh." 

"That's  it,"  said  John.  "Pinion's  more  often  deaf  be- 
cause he  won't  hear  than  because  he  can't.  He  comes  to 
church  reg'lar,  though,  and  that's  something  to  be  said 
for  him." 

George  was  in  half  a  mind  to  start  a  discussion  on  reli- 
gion, but  refrained. 

During  the  week  the  two  brothers  drove  together  into 
Canterbury,  and  half  their  mother's  little  property  was 
transferred  to  George's  name.  On  their  way  back  they 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  69 

stopped  at  Sturry,  where  their  cousin  Ford — married  since 
George  had  last  seen  him — kept  a  small  shop  stocked 
chiefly  with  bargains  from  country  sales.  For  some  little 
time  John  had  had  his  eye  on  an  old  spinet,  with  yellow 
keys  and  faded  scroll-work  on  the  polished  wood. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that,  now,  George?"  he  asked, 
when  Ford's  back  was  turned.  "I  thought  of  getting  that 
for  Bess  as  a  wedding  gift.  You  understand  music  better'n 
I  do,  hearing  them  playing  the  bands  so  often,  and  all  that. 
Sounds  all  right,  eh  ?  Not  that  I  know  one  note  from  t'other, 
but  the  little  lass  is  rare  clever  at  music,  and  it'll  come  as 
a  surprise — I  want  to  make  her  as  happy  as  can  be  in  her 
new  home." 

During  his  campaigns  George  had  learned  to  vamp  out 
a  tune  on  spinets  and  harpsichords  in  the  houses  where 
they  were  billeted.  He  hummed  over  a  line  or  two  of  the 
Riflemen's  song 

"  Oh,  Colonel  Coote  Manningham,  he  was  the  man, 
For  he  invented  a  capital  plan; 
He  raised  a  Corps  of  Riflemen, 

To  fight  for  England's  glory  " — 

and  then  knocked  out  the  tune  from  the  ancient  wires. 
The  music  to  which  the  doggerel  had  been  sung  or  shouted 
on  many  a  march  and  by  many  a  camp-fire  came  feebly 
enough  from  the  instrument;  like  a  faint  echo,  indeed, 
from  days  and  nights  far  off  and  half  forgotten.  But  the 
tone  was  sweet,  with  the  hoarded  sweetness  of  old  years 
and  memories.  John  was  delighted.  He  dived  into  his 
deep  pocket  there  and  then  for  the  money;  the  instrument 
was  to  be  overhauled,  polished,  and  sent  to  the  inn  by 
carrier,  addressed  to  Bess,  when  it  was  ready. 

"You  ought  to  have  asked  him  the  price  of  that  old 
clock  first,  John,"  said  his  brother,  as  they  came  away. 


70  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

"Whatever  for?"  asked  John  in  surprise.  "I  wanted 
the  spinet — not  the  clock." 

"Shouldn't  let  him  see  how  bad  you  wanted  it,  though. 
You'd  have  got  it  half  a  guinea  cheaper  if  you  hadn't  been 
in  such  a  hurry." 

"Oh,  it's  worth  what  I  gave,  and  I'm  satisfied.  He's 
honest,  I  should  hope;  and  I  don't  want  to  do  him  out  of 
his  profit  to  pleasure  Bess.  It  wouldn't  be  straight  to 
pretend  I  wanted  something  else  when  I  wanted  that." 

They  drove  home  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  John  very 
full  of  his  purchase  and  the  delight  it  would  give  his  wife 
when  it  came  home.  So  pleased  was  he  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  he  kept  the  cat  in  the  bag  at  all.  Over  the  even- 
ing meal  Bess  more  than  once  intercepted  winks  meant 
only  for  George;  he  commiserated  her  on  the  fact  that 
marriage  had  robbed  her  of  the  harpsichord  at  the  farm, 
a  legacy  from  the  gay  days  of  Anthony  Huntingdon  and 
his  wife;  waxed  so  doleful,  indeed,  on  the  subject,  that 
Bess  would  have  been  very  obtuse  not  to  have  suspected 
his  secret.  She  kept  her  own  counsel,  and  held  herself 
in  readiness  to  be  surprised. 

Already  her  influence  was  making  itself  felt  at  the  inn. 
The  old  rooms  renewed  their  youth,  and  put  on  airs  of 
coquettish  gayety.  John  chaffed  her  endlessly  about  her 
little  schemes  and  plans,  but  his  manner  made  no  secret 
of  his  admiration  and  pride.  Fresh  rep  curtained  the  little 
window  of  the  parlour  door;  the  gay,  soft  cushion  was 
tied  neatly  to  the  back  of  John's  great  armchair;  on  the 
mantelshelf  cheap  but  pretty  vases,  bought  from  a  wan- 
dering pedlar  at  the  door,  were  filled  with  silver  honesty. 
"It's  lucky  to  have  money  in  both  pockets!"  she  said 
jestingly,  using  the  old  Kentish  name.  Slippers  were 
ready  for  them  directly  they  came  in  from  a  dusty  or 
muddy  tramp;  the  sheets  were  scented  with  sweet  laven- 
der when  they  sought  their  beds  at  night.  Corners  that 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  71 

had  accumulated  dust  under  Delilah's  doleful  regime  were 
now  kept  scrubbed  and  clean.  Yet,  at  the  evening  meal, 
Bess  took  her  place  at  the  table  looking  dainty,  and  neat, 
and  fresh  as  a  wildflower — as  though  she  had  been  sitting 
all  day  with  folded  hands,  instead  of  working  harder 
than  three  hired  helps. 

And  how  they  laughed  over  their  meals,  these  three,  at 
the  simplest,  homeliest  jokes!  How  John  poked  sly  fun 
at  his  wife  about  her  schemes  of  improvement,  and  sug- 
gested the  most  glaring  and  appalling  combinations  of 
colours  in  place  of  those  she  had  chosen,  and  winked  across 
at  George  when  she  feigned  indignation!  George  took 
credit  to  himself  that  he  could  look  on  with  so  little  jeal- 
ousy in  his  heart.  But  at  night,  when  the  door  of  their 
room  closed,  and  shut  them  in — now  and  then  on  sum- 
mer evenings,  when  the  two  went  for  a  little  stroll  together 
on  the  downs  or  in  the  cornfields — once  or  twice,  when  he 
came  suddenly  into  the  parlour,  and  they  broke  short  some 
conversation  too  intimate  even  for  his  ears — George  felt 
a  sudden  smarting  at  the  heart,  a  sense  of  loss  and  exclu- 
sion, difficult  to  bear  and  to  conceal. 

The  knowledge  that  money  now  stood  in  his  name  gave 
him  a  better  self-conceit;  he  winced  less  under  the  condo- 
lences of  those  who  remembered  his  expectations  from  the 
war  and  realised  his  disappointment.  He  had  done  with 
high  ambitions.  But  the  ideas  that  had  flashed  through 
his  mind  when  John  first  mentioned  their  mother's  legacy, 
on  the  night  of  Huntingdon's  stormy  visit  to  the  inn,  still 
possessed  him,  and  gathered  force  with  the  passing  of  the 
quiet  days.  He  began  to  chafe  secretly  at  having  to  take 
his  place  among  the  unknown,  the  unremarked,  the  ordi- 
nary folk  of  every  day.  He  still  remembered,  at  the  back 
of  all  this  ordered  life,  the  squeak  of  fife,  the  rattle  of 
drum,  the  blare  of  bugle-horn,  the  songs  on  the  march, 
the  glint  of  rifles  in  dazzling  sunshine,  the  riotous  entries 


72  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

into  towns  and  villages  where  bright-eyed  girls  welcomed 
the  conquerors  with  song  and  dance.  And  all  that  he  had 
suffered,  all  that  he  had  enjoyed  and  seen,  raised  him  not 
an  inch  above  his  fellows,  now  that  his  tales  were  told 
and  the  wonder  of  his  return  had  been  forgotten. 

Soon  after  the  Canterbury  visit,  George  called  on  Cap- 
tain Rockett  at  his  cottage  under  the  shelter  of  the  downs. 
The  little  mariner  hailed  him  cheerfully,  and  led  the  way 
into  the  Turkish  summer-house  in  front  of  which  Nep- 
tune and  the  battered  figure-head  of  the  old  Lydia  mounted 
guard,  with  faces  strangely  unconcerned  by  their  decapi- 
tation. 

"  Let's  go  into  the  Seraglio,  George,"  he  said.  "  Paint's 
dry,  ain't  it?  Best  to  look  before  you  sit;  I  forgot  to  tell 
Mrs.  Rockett  I'd  given  it  a  fresh  coat,  and  she  left  them 
marks.  Punch  has  taken  her  out  on  the  downs,  so  we've 
the  place  to  ourselves — 'cept  for  Mrs.  Gowdy,  who  keeps 
upstairs.  Well,  and  how  are  you,  George?  Yes,  yes," 
he  interrupted,  with  kindly  haste,  as  George  forestalled 
awkward  inquiries  by  speaking  of  the  little  profit  war  had 
brought  him,  "I  did  hear  about  that.  There's  a  lot  of 
luck  about  it,  and  'tisn't  always  the  best  man  comes  to 
the  front.  I  remember  once,  a  good  many  years  ago  it 
was,  a  Russian  General  corned  aboard  the  Neptune  in  the 
Baltic.  He  was  quite  a  young  chap,  not  wery  intelligent 
neither;  and  I  axed  him  how  he'd  rose  so  quickly.  '  Wery 
simple,  Cap'n  Rockett,'  says  he.  '  It  was  all  through  a  brass 
hat-pin.  We  were  fighting  down  south  a  year  or  two  ago, 
when  I  was  only  a  lieutenant;  and  our  regiment  was  march- 
ing through  a  mountain  pass.  The  General  rode  first; 
then  the  Colonel;  then  the  Major;  then  the  Captains. 
Suddenly  I  see  a  pin,  glitterin'  like  gold  in  the  sunshine, 
and  jumped  off  my  horse  to  pick  it  up.  At  that  wery 
moment  a  cannon-ball  corned  whisking  down  the  pass. 
It  snipped  off  the  General's  head;  it  snipped  off  the  Col- 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  73 

onel's  head;  it  snipped  off  the  Major's  and  the  Captains'.' 
And  that's  how,  if  you'll  believe  me,  George,  that  there 
young  Russian  became  a  General.  But  another  poor  fel- 
low I  knew  was  mad  on  being  one — in  the  French  army, 
he  was — and  always  'sperimenting  with  things  to  try  and 
get  his  name  known.  One  idea  he  had  was  a  new  kind  of 
carrier-pigeon.  Leastways,  it  wasn't  ezackly  a  pigeon — 
a  pigeot  or  a  parrigeon  might  be  a  better  name.  It  was  a 
kind  of  cross  between  a  pigeon  and  a  parrot,  so  that  it 
could  ask  the  way  if  it  lost  itself  on  its  journeys.  But 
neither  that  nor  nothing  else  ever  made  him  a  General, 
poor  fellow;  and  the  last  I  beared  of  him  was  that  he'd 
blowed  hisself  to  pieces  trying  to  inwent  a  new  kind  of 
gunpowder  that'd  send  men  off  to  sleep  without  killing 
'em.  But  here  comes  the  Harem,"  he  said,  dropping  his 
voice  as  Mrs.  Rockett,  dragged  by  Punch,  entered  the 
garden.  "Rum  dog,  that,  George,"  he  whispered; 
"reminds  me  of  a  tortoise  more'n  anything  else,  'cause  I 
never  know  which  end  of  him  to  feed  until  he  sticks  his 
head  out.  He  knows,  though.  Well,  my  dear,  here's  George 
come  to  see  us.  I  reckon  he'd  like  a  dish  of  that  Chany 
tay  Cap'n  Walsh  sent  me,  if  you  can  get  the  kettle  boiling." 

When  Mrs.  Rockett  had  gone  into  the  house,  the  mention 
of  tea  sent  Captain  Rockett  off  on  a  tack  more  interesting 
to  his  visitor. 

"Talking  of  kettles,"  he  said,  "have  you  beared  any- 
thing in  foreign  parts  of  them  new-fangled  ships  that  sail 
by  steam,  George?  They've  got  'em  in  America  and  in 
Scotland,  and  now  they're  trying  one  on  the  Thames. 
Rum-looking  craft,  with  a  big  chimney  to  poison  God's 
air  with.  If  she  answers,  they're  going  to  start  a  Margate 
steam-packet,  and  then  it  won't  be  long  before  it's  good- 
bye to  the  old  hoys." 

"My  nable!"  cried  George.  "They'll  be  stopping  at 
Herne  Bay,  then,  very  likely?" 


74  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"Shouldn't  wonder,"  said  Captain  Rockett  gloomily;  but 
he  cheered  up  almost  instantly.  "I'm  trying  to  get  the 
hang  of  the  thing  by  'sperimenting  with  our  old  kettle. 
Rather  late  at  my  time  of  life  to  larn  new-fangled  ways; 
but  I  reckon  we'll  see  a  lot  of  changes  now  the  wars  are 
over,  and  I  believe  in  being  ready.  People  won't  pay 
their  half-crowns  to  come  by  the  hoy,  if  they  can  get  here 
without  waiting  for  tide  or  wind." 

As  George  strolled  homeward,  an  hour  or  so  later,  the 
little  sleepy  village  by  the  sea  vanished  like  the  fabric  of 
dreams;  the  wooden  cottages  with  their  moss-grown  and 
lichened  tiles  changed  to  great  stuccoed  mansions;  rows 
of  gaudily  painted  machines  took  the  place  of  the  two  or 
three  cumbrous  chariots  which  now  barely  repaid  Izzard, 
their  proprietor,  for  his  enterprise;  the  Regent's  coach 
clattered  along  the  front,  between  crowds  of  doffing  vis- 
itors. He  saw  great  steamships — vaguely  shaped — draw 
alongside  quays — ill-defined — and  leave  them  black  with 
passengers.  And  all  the  passengers,  with  all  their  bags 
and  baggage,  were  flocking  towards  a  palatial  hostelry 
that  bore  the  sign  of  the  Running  Horse. 

He  burst  in,  hot  with  his  schemes;  Delilah  was  in  the  tap- 
room, Bess  alone  in  the  parlour.  His  ambitions  had  time 
to  cool,  and  contracted  in  the  cooling.  Still,  he  saw  for- 
tune before  them,  as  a  reward  for  a  little  enterprise  and 
prevision.  Some  day — not  so  far  distant — they  would  have 
cause  to  be  grateful  for  his  return.  The  villagers  would  doff 
their  caps  to  him;  a  score  of  maids  and  drawers  would  run 
to  do  his  orders.  Bess  should  wear  silks,  and  diamonds, 
and  golden  chains.  They  would  make  money  enough  to 
buy  up  Huntingdon  and  all  his  acres;  they  could  travel, 
and  see  the  wonders  of  lands  far  off;  they  might  sell  the 
inn  at  last,  and  live  like  gentry  in  London  or  the  shires. 

Even  John,  cautious,  unimaginative,  slow  in  thought 
and  deed,  was  made  at  last  to  see  some  of  these  bright 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  75 

visions.  He  was  obviously  disturbed  in  mind.  "I  suppose 
things  will  go  ahead  a  bit,"  he  said  dubiously,  "but  I 
can't  see  much  sign  of  better  times  yet,  George.  Look  at 
the  price  of  bread.  Look  at  the  low  wages,  now  that  all 
the  soagers  have  come  back,  with  mouths  to  feed  and  no 
work  to  do.  I  hear  the  warehouses  are  crowded  with  stuff 
they  hoped  to  sell  abroad  as  soon  as  peace  come;  and 
peace  has  come,  but  there's  no  money  in  foreign  parts  to 
buy  anything.  I  daresay  in  time " 

"That's  it.  But  we've  got  to  be  ready  beforehand.  It's 
only  sense  to  look  ahead  a  bit.  You've  got  the  inn  and  a 
little  trade  to  start  with;  well,  if  we  use  this  money  it'll 
be  like  pouring  water  in  the  pump,  only  to  bring  more  up. 
Look  at  Brighton,  just  a  fishing  village  not  so  long  ago,  and 
now!" 

"Yes,  but  the  Prince " 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  great  folk  come  here  as  well? 
It's  not  so  much  further  by  road.  And  by  sea " 

"Ah,  you'll  never  get  many  coming  by  the  hoy.  No, 
no,"  said  John  sagely,  shaking  his  head. 

"No,  I  don't  reckon  you  will/'  said  George,  agreeing 
readily  enough,  and  now  producing  the  trump  card  he 
was  holding  in  reserve.  John  was  visibly  impressed  by 
Captain  Rockett's  news  and  predictions.  He  sat  with 
puzzled  and  knitted  brows,  while  his  brother  spoke  eagerly 
of  the  fishing — the  bathing — the  downs — the  air — the 
many  places  from  which,  in  the  glorious  days  now  coming, 
visitors  might  be  expected  to  flock  into  Herne  Bay  and  to 
the  inn. 

"No  doubt  there's  something  in  what  you  say,  George," 
he  admitted  at  last,  doubtfully.  "But  what  do  you  want 
us  to  do?  Not  pull  the  poor  old  place  down  about  our 
ears,  surely?" 

"It  might  pay  if  we  could  do  that,  even,"  said  George. 
"No,  we  can't  do  that,  of  course.  We  don't  want  to  run 


76  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

risks,  either.  But  we  ought  to  build  more  stabling  out  at 
the  back;  there's  the  paddock  we  could  use — I've  thought 
it  all  out — and  then  more  bedrooms,  and  a  sitting-room 
for  better-class  folk,  and  some  furniture " 

"My  nable!"  interrupted  John,  whistling.    "And  all  on 
three  hundred  pound?" 

"Oh,  we  could  raise  a  little  more'n  that.  Borrow  a  bit 
on  the  inn " 

John  shook  his  head. 

"Why,  what  a  cautious  old  fellow  you  are,  John!  Noth- 
ing venture  nothing  have's  my  motto.  War  learns  you 
to  take  risks.  Ever  hear  about  that  silver  they  poured 
down  the  mountain  side  on  the  way  to  Corunna?  They 
shot  waggon-loads  of  it — fortunes — pay  for  the  troops, 
you  know — over  the  edge  of  a  precipice  to  get  away  from 
the  French  quicker.  That  sort  of  thing  learns  you  to  take 
risks,  and  lose  a  little  to  gain  a  lot." 

He  let  his  words  sink  in  for  a  day  or  two.  Some  chance 
words  from  Rockett  made  John  give  more  serious  thought 
to  the  proposal.  George  managed,  very  skilfully,  to  in- 
flame Bess's  imagination  to  some  degree — not  to  the  glow- 
ing heat  of  his  own,  certainly — but  she  was  ambitious,  for 
John's  sake  rather  than  her  own,  and  a  hundred  times  more 
impulsive  than  her  husband.  "There  may  be  something 
in  what  George  says,  John,"  she  said,  one  night,  as  they 
were  going  to  bed. 

"Don't  want  to  run  risks,  though,  lass,"  he  answered; 
but  he  was  already  playing  with  the  idea.  Before  he  blew 
out  the  light,  he  adopted  a  method  of  divination  then  more 
common  than  now.  He  opened  the  Bible  at  random, 
and  put  his  finger  down;  then  read  the  passage  it  marked 
out. 

"And  under  the  brim  of  it  round  about  there  were  knops 
compassing  it,  ten  in  a  cubit,  compassing  the  sea  round 
about;  the  knops  were  cast  in  two  rows,  when  it  was  cast." 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  77 

Little  help  to  be  gained  from  that,  he  thought,  and 
went  to  sleep  trying  to  puzzle  out  some  meaning  from  the 
passage. 

George  returned  to  the  attack  later,  and  for  some  time 
John  heard  him  in  silence. 

"It's  like  this,"  George  said,  "other  people  won't  stand 
still,  if  you  do,  John.  You  remember  the  motto  the  old 
parson  read  out  to  me,  when  he  gave  me  my  prize  at  the 
stroke-bias1  years  ago?  'Neither  go  back,  nor  stand  still, 
but  go  forward.'  It  queered  me  then,  and  I  didn't  know 
whether  to  walk  straight  past  him  without  the  prize;  but 
I  know  what  it  meant  now.  The  Ship  and  the  Dolphin 
won't  stand  still;  why,  White's  having  his  place  painted 
already.  You  won't  like  it  if  you  let  your  chance  slip, 
and  see  Mrs.  White  and  Mrs.  Taylor  in  silk  gowns  and  gold 
chains,  and  Bess — who's  a  lady  born — slaving  away  in 
cotton  all  her  days." 

John  was  silent.  "Well,  lass,"  he  said  at  last,  "let's 
hear  what  you  say  about  it.  You're  sitting  there  as  mum 
as  a  mouse,  and  looking  all  the  time  as  if  you  couldn't 
say  'Boh'  to  a  goose;  but  it's  your  business  just  as  much 
as  ours.  What  do  you  think?" 

"Boh!"  said  Bess,  turning  the  laugh  against  her  hus- 
band. "Well,  keep  quiet,  and  I'll  think."  She  tossed  back 
her  hair,  set  her  dimpled  elbows  on  the  table,  and  cradled 
her  chin  and  cheeks  between  her  palms.  The  lamplight 
shone  on  her  puckered  brow  and  downcast  lashes.  John 
watched  her,  smiling.  George  watched,  too. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  at  last  slowly.  "I  think,"  she  said, 
solemnly,  like  one  delivering  a  verdict,  "I  think  I  shouldn't 
much  mind  the  cotton  dresses — only  I  hope  John '11  give 
me  linsey-woolsey  if  it's  very  cold  indeed.  And — and  I 

1  An  old  Kentish  sport,  somewhat  similar  to  prisoners'  base,  in 
which  rival  villages  took  part. 


78  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

think  I'd  like  John  to  wear  silks  and  gold  chains  if  he 
likes  them,  and  if  Mr.  Taylor  and  Mr.  White  are  going  to." 
John  chuckled.  "And — and  I  think  you'd  better  settle 
what  you  want  to  do  yourself,  John,  and  let  me  help  you 
afterwards." 

"My  wig,  you  ought  to  ha'  married  Solomon,  Bess!" 
laughed  John,  but  instantly  grew  serious.  After  all,  the 
one  bold  stroke  of  his  life  had  given  him  his  wife.  And 
yet 

"I  doan't  know  what  to  say  about  it,  George,"  he 
said,  doubtfully,  at  last.  "I — I  opened  the  Book  last 
night,  to  see  if  that'd  help;  but  there  didn't  seem  to  be 
any  message." 

"Oh,  you  don't  believe "  George  checked  himself 

suddenly.  Military  life  had  broken  him  loose  from  the  be- 
lief of  the  verbal  inspiration  of  the  Bible,  which  John  still 
firmly  held;  and  experience  had  not  yet  taught  him  the 
great,  unalterable  truths,  ancient  as  man,  which  have  been 
written  down,  not  in  cold  blood,  nor  with  calculating 
brain,  but  in  suffering,  in  trial,  and  in  deliverance;  truths 
confirmed  line  upon  line,  precept  upon  precept,  here  a 
little,  there  a  little,  in  the  experience  of  unnumbered  gen- 
erations. But  in  John's  unhesitating  acceptance  of  the 
views  in  which  he  had  been  brought  up  George  thought  he 
might  find  a  useful  ally.  "Let's  try  together  what  the 
Bible  says,"  he  exclaimed,  "and  go  by  that,  if  it  tells  us 
anything.  Where  is  it?  In  your  room?  I'll  get  it." 

He  ran  upstairs,  and  lit  a  rush.  It  was  his  father's 
Bible,  used  at  that  service  long  ago.  He  turned  the  leaves 
quickly;  a  short  concordance  at  the  end  gave  him  at  last 
what  he  wanted.  For  a  moment  he  felt  some  compunc- 
tion, which  he  shook  off  with  irritation,  as  a  superstitious 
survival  of  his  rigid  early  training.  He  was  convinced 
that  his  schemes  must  be  successful,  and  thought  him- 
self justified — or  tried  to  persuade  himself  that  he  was 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  79 

justified — in  using  any  means  to  overcome  his  brother's 
reluctance,  and  to  induce  him  to  take  the  tide  in  his 
affairs  which  promised  fortune. 

He  stiffened  back  the  book,  so  that  it  should  open  at 
the  passage,  and  took  the  additional  precaution  of  nick- 
ing the  end  of  the  pages  with  his  thumbnail;  after  one  or 
two  attempts,  he  was  able  to  ensure  opening  it  at  the  page 
he  wanted. 

He  ran  downstairs  carrying  the  book. 

"You've  been  a  long  time,"  said  Bess. 

"Couldn't  find  it  at  first.  Now  then,  all  of  us  together, 
in  the  old  way.  Touch  hands,  Bess,  and  you,  John." 

They  bent  with  fingers  touching  over  the  book,  and 
opened  it.  George  pointed  out  at  once  the  3rd  verse  of 
the  24th  chapter  of  the  Book  of  Proverbs. 

"Here  we  are!"  he  cried.  "Through  wisdom  is  a  house 
builded;  and  by  understanding  it  is  established.  And  by 
knowledge,"  he  went  on,  "shall  the  chambers  be  filled  with 
all  precious  and  pleasant  riches." 

John  breathed  heavily,  and  looked  at  Bess.  Her  eyes 
were  sparkling. 

"I'll  go  over  to  Canterbury  to-morrow  and  get  esti- 
mates," said  George. 


CHAPTER  VI 

/CONSCIENCE  has  an  irritating  habit  of  raising 
\^J  its  voice,  when  its  quiet  warning  has  passed 
unheeded  and  further  words  seem  meaningless  or  use- 
less. George  had  acted  almost  on  impulse;  he  resented 
with  surprise  the  turmoil  that  followed  a  peccadillo  so 
well  meant.  Against  the  dark  background  of  war  his 
action  would  have  shone  out  like  a  virtue.  On  the  pure 
and  simple  home-life  it  looked  strangely  like  the  smear  of 
unclean  fingers. 

Plato  says  that  exercise  will  almost  silence  an  accusing 
conscience.  George  threw  himself  heart  and  soul  into  the 
new  enterprise,  meaning  to  justify  his  action  by  its  results. 
He  was  confident  of  success.  Plans  were  prepared,  esti- 
mates furnished,  the  builders  set  to  work.  He  was  often 
at  Canterbury,  discussing  charges  and  new  suggestions  with 
the  man  who  had  the  work  in  hand.  And  these  meetings 
with  Stokes  meant  the  exchange  of  a  good  deal  of  liquid 
hospitality.  Once  or  twice  he  came  back  to  the  inn  un- 
certain of  hand  and  foot  and  thick  of  speech.  John  noticed 
that  the  bottles  ranged  over  the  bar  emptied  more  quickly 
than  the  receipts  from  the  spirits  warranted,  but  hesitated 
to  speak,  in  spite  of  promptings  from  Delilah.  "I  reckon 
a  soager  can  carry  more'n  another  man  without  harm," 
he  reflected;  "he  must  have  got  seasoned  to  liquor  at  the 
wars,  and  misses  those  wine-vats  he  talks  about."  But 
one  night  matters  came  to  a  kind  of  climax. 

George  left  Canterbury  that  evening  in  a  state  border- 
ing closely  on  intoxication.  A  glass  or  two  at  Herne  made 
his  condition  obvious  to  all  who  saw  him.  As  he  staggered 
homeward,  through  Eddington,  a  group  of  farm  lads  return- 
ing from  work  in  Huntingdon's  fields  made  some  jesting 

80 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  81 

remarks  that  reached  his  fuddled  brain.  He  swayed  round, 
with  a  volley  of  barrack-room  oaths. 

"Who  be  a-talkin'  to  you?"  cried  one  lad,  Pinion's 
grandson.  "Reckon  us  can  say  what  us  pleases,  without 
axing  you.  Some  folk,"  he  went  on,  speaking  to  a  com- 
panion, but  loud  enough  for  George  to  hear,  "some  folk 
fancy  theirselves  Dooks  of  Wellington  when  they  be  drunk, 
doan't  they,  Jim?" 

George  aimed  a  blow  at  him  that  missed  its  mark. 

"Ah,  would  'ee?  Think  yourself  mighty  clever,  now, 
doan't  'ee?"  cried  the  boy,  while  the  others  laughed.  "I 
reckon  you  haven't  much  to  boast  of;  with  all  your  soa- 
gerin'  you've  had  to  come  back  again  and  serve  us  with  our 
pots  of  ale.  Look,  Bill,  he's  a-showin'  us  how  he  fought 
them  Frenchies."  Egged  on  by  the  admiration  of  his  com- 
rades, young  Pinion  darted  within  reach  of  George,  and 
dodged  back  again.  But  he  played  this  game  once  too 
often.  George  caught  him  suddenly  by  the  throat. 

"Leave  go  of  me,  can't  you?"  There  was  resentment  in 
the  cry,  changing  almost  instantly  to  a  yell  of  pain.  "Oh! 
Oh!  You'm  chokin'  me!  Us  wasn't  talkin'  about  you, 
Must'  Kennett!  Bill!  Oh!  Oh!" 

Before  the  others  could  interfere,  George  had  shaken 
him  like  a  rat,  half-choking  him.  He  flung  the  blubbering 
lad  down  at  last,  and  kicked  him  as  he  lay  whining  in  the 
dust.  "Shame!  Shame!"  cried  the  others,  and  closed 
round  ominously.  George  burst  through,  muttering  oaths 
and  pushing  them  to  right  and  left. 

"I'll  pay  'ee  for  that,  see  if  I  doan't!"  sobbed  the  boy 
after  him.  A  stone  or  two  and  taunts  of  "coward"  fol- 
lowed him  down  the  road. 

He  had  wit  enough  left  to  feel  a  vague  sense  of  shame; 

he  was  irritated  with  himself,  with  the  boys,  with  the  world. 

He  lurched  into  the  taproom  of  the  Running  Horse.    Delilah 

sat  alone,  poring  over  a  news-sheet  which  reported  a  murder 

6 


82  RUNNING   HORSE  INN 

case  at  the  assizes;  she  was  too  busily  occupied  in  spelling 
out  the  longer  words  to  pay  him  much  attention.  He 
poured  himself  out  another  glass  of  spirits.  When  the  time 
came  for  their  evening  meal,  he  was  flushed,  quarrelsome, 
almost  incoherent.  John  and  Bess  noticed  it  directly  he 
entered  the  parlour,  but  said  nothing  as  he  staggered  to  his 
seat.  There  was  a  difficult  silence.  John  said  grace. 

Almost  before  the  "Amen"  was  reached,  George  broke 
out  in  a  kind  of  growling  monologue. 

"Lotsh  of  thanksh  for  cold  mutton,"  he  muttered. 
"More'n  ever  we  said  at  Madrid  for  our  lush  o'  wine  and 
kingsh'  rations.  Ought  to  have  good  wittles.  Damned 
non — nonshensh  saying  thanks,  John.  Deserve  more'n 
cold  mutton." 

John  and  Bess  exchanged  glances  and  went  on  with 
their  meal  in  silence.  George  rambled  on,  finding  fault, 
speaking  of  the  fortune  they  were  going  to  make,  and 
at  last  woke  up  to  the  fact  that  there  was  no  response. 
He  grew  suspicious,  then  angry,  and  half  rose  from  his 
seat. 

Bess,  to  quiet  him,  tried  to  make  conversation.  His 
mumblings  died  down  for  a  time  into  mollified  incoherence; 
but  suddenly  he  broke  out  again. 

"Here,  steady,"  John  was  obliged  to  say  at  last.  " Keep 
a  clean  tongue  in  your  head,  George,  old  fellow.  You  ain't 
in  a  barrack  room  now,  you  know.  Bess  don't  want  to 
hear  language  like  that." 

"Mustn't  talk  now,"  he  grunted  resentfully.  "Nice 
shtate  of — hie — thingsh,  if  a  poor  Rifleman,  first  in  the 
field  and  first  out  of  it — last,  I  mean — what  am  I  talking 
about?  I  dunno."  He  looked  round,  grinning  vacantly. 
Suddenly  the  meat  on  his  plate  caught  his  eye.  "Cold 
mutton!"  he  hiccupped,  with  ineffable  contempt. 

"I'm  very  sorry,  George,"  said  Bess,  incautiously.  "We 
had  to  finish  up  to-day  because " 


RUNNING   HORSE  INN  83 

"Needn't  apol — hie — ogise,  Bess.  Good  enough  for 
you,  good  enough  for  me.  There,  there.  Give's  'nother 
kissh,  Bess."  An  arm  reached  out  unsteadily;  before  John 
could  interfere,  he  had  clutched  Bess  round  the  waist  and 
was  drawing  her  towards  him. 

"Here,  let  her  be,  George!"  cried  his  brother  with  rising 
anger. 

"Whatsh  matter  now?  Only  going — hie — kissh  Bess." 
She  tried  to  draw  herself  away,  but  before  she  or  John 
could  stop  him  he  was  showering  hot  kisses  on  her  hair  and 
cheeks  and  lips. 

John  caught  him  quickly  by  the  shoulders;  he  swayed 
for  a  minute,  and  then  collapsed  on  the  couch.  He  made 
no  attempt  to  rise,  but  sat  huddled  there,  mumbling  to 
himself.  "Ought  to  be  my  wife,  too!  Nice  thing — steal 
away  my  girl  when  I'm  fighting  over — hie — shea.  Wheresh 

harm  in  a  kiss?  Wanted  me  to  kiss  her  once "  He 

dozed  off  gradually  into  a  drunken  slumber,  slack-mouthed, 
flushed,  breathing  heavily;  not  a  pleasant  sight  in  the  little 
parlour  which  Bess  had  already  made  so  cosy  and  so 
home-like. 

"Better  get  him  up  to  bed,  perhaps,  Bess,"  said  John  at 
last,  under  his  breath.  "  People'll  be  coming  into  the  tap- 
room soon."  He  took  his  brother  by  the  arm,  and  shook 
him  into  drowsy,  irritable  consciousness.  "Come  up  to 
bed,  old  fellow,"  he  said  kindly,  and  at  last,  with  some 
difficulty,  led  him  up  the  stairs  to  his  room. 

John  was  very  silent  and  gloomy  during  the  rest  of  the 
evening.  Far  less  stigma  attached  to  drunkenness  then 
than  now,  but  this  touched  the  happiness  of  their  home- 
life  very  closely.  "We  must  make  a  lot  of  allowances,"  he 
said  to  his  wife  as  they  went  to  bed.  "A  man  who's 
knocked  about  at  the  wars  drifts  easily  into  loose  ways. 
I  dare  say  he  was  in  a  hard-drinking,  hard-swearing,  reck- 
less set,  lass,  and  can't  shake  free  from  old  habits  all  at 


84  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

once,  however  much  he  tries.  He's  told  me  a  little  of  what 
went  on;  and  'tis  no  wonder  if  a  man  who's  seen  so  much, 
and  been  through  so  much,  and  not  even  counted  human 
lives  as  being  more  than  fair  game  for  his  gun — like  par- 
tridges or  rabbits — 'tis  no  wonder  if  he  breaks  out  now  and 
then.  He's  a  good  fellow  at  heart,  is  George;  never  a  better. 
He  was  disappointed,  too,  getting  nothing  for  all  his 
fighting;  and  perhaps  he  feels  out  of  it  a  bit,  seeing  us  two 
married,  and  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.  You  are  happy, 
aren't  you,  Bess?  I  hardly  knew  what  real  happiness  was 
till  we  got  married;  not  real,  bubbling-up  happiness,  that 
makes  you  feel  like  shouting  day  and  night,  and  keeps  you 
thanking  God  for  making  life  so  good.  I  reckon  he's  been 
working  pretty  hard  too,  and  worrying  about  the  building. 
We'll  have  to  try  and  make  a  change  for  him.  I'll  tell  you 
what.  Let's  go  over  to  Fordwich  on  Friday  in  the  chaise, 
and  take  some  wittles  with  us,  and  perhaps  go  on  the 
river.  'Lilah  can  look  after  the  inn;  I'll  get  young  Graydon 
in  to  help;  he's  out  of  a  job,  and  it'll  be  doing  him  a  turn." 

George  came  down  late  to  breakfast  the  next  morning, 
sullen  and  miserable  and  repentant ;  yet  ready  to  resent  any 
reference  to  the  preceding  night.  But  the  only  signs  that 
anything  had  happened  were  Bess's  brisker  waiting  on  his 
wants  and  John's  more  genial  gossip  and  kindlier  manner. 
All  the  afternoon  Bess  busied  herself  in  making  cakes  to 
take  with  them,  and  that  famous  old  country  dish  of 
custard  and  currants,  "pudding-pie,"  which  George,  like 
all  Kentish  boys,  had  been  very  partial  to,  when  his 
mother  ruled  the  kitchen  of  the  Running  Horse. 

On  Friday  morning  Bess  finished  her  housework  early. 
It  was  a  glorious  day;  she  sang  in  its  opening,  like  the 
birds.  John,  splashing  and  blowing  over  his  morning  rain- 
water, chimed  in  untunefully  on  minor  notes;  she  clapped 
her  hands  to  her  ears  in  amused  dismay.  "Don't  stop, 
John,  go  on  singing,"  she  said.  "I  only  put  my  hands  over 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  85 

my  ears  because  it  sounds  sweeter  far  away.  Music  often 
does."  He  punished  her,  laughing,  with  a  kiss. 

George  put  Blossom  between  the  shafts;  John  lifted  in 
their  basket  of  provisions — enough  for  an  army,  almost, 
he  said — and  placed  a  cushion  for  his  wife.  Bess  had 
decked  the  whip  with  ribbons,  and  made  little  rosettes  for 
Blossom  to  wear  behind  her  wise  old  ears;  an  honour  of 
which  the  mare  seemed  at  first  suspicious,  then  inordinately 
vain.  They  started  off  under  the  reproachful  eyes  of 
Delilah,  who  gave  them  grudging  good  wishes  for  the  day 
she  longed  to  share,  and  incidentally  mentioned  as  apropos 
the  fate  of  one  boating  party  fished  out  of  the  river  by  her 
father.  Her  gruesome  details  as  to  the  condition  of  the 
bodies  (these  particulars  had  furnished  her  with  conversa- 
tion for  weeks  after  the  catastrophe,  especially  when  wait- 
ing at  meals)  were  cut  short  by  John's  "  click  "  to  the  mare. 

"Not  much  need  for  the  whip,  George,"  he  said.  "She 
don't  show  her  age  a  bit;  willing  as  ever  was.  One  of  the 
family,  ain't  you,  old  girl?  She  missed  poor  mother  bring- 
ing her  a  lump  of  sugar  every  morning  as  much  as  a  human 
could  have  done.  Mother  used  to  say  Blossom  was  almost 
a  Christian;  and  if  it  comes  to  doing  her  duty  in  that  state 
of  life  to  which  God's  called  her,  she's  a  better  than  many 
I  could  tell  of.  Talk  about  animals  having  no  souls!  The 
angels  ride  horses  in  Revelations,  and  if  one  of  'em  wants  a 
good  mount,  or  a  good  mare  to  drive  without  any  wice 
or " 

"Never  heared  tell  of  chaises  nor  gigs  in  heaven,  though, 
John,"  said  his  brother,  laughing. 

"I'm  none  so  sure  about  that.  Elijah  went  up  in  a 
chariot,  and  there  were  chariots  as  well  as  horses  in  the 
heavenly  army  that  compassed  round  Dothan.  I  reckon — 
Hello!" 

Jogging  along  the  road  in  front  of  them  was  the  familiar 
figure  of  Roger  Huntingdon;  shoulders  bent,  arms  sawing, 


86  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

low-crowned  beaver  pressed  well  down  over  his  grizzled, 
bullet  head,  gaitered  legs  gripping  his  bay  cob  like  a  vice. 
John  held  Blossom  back,  hoping  that  he  would  enter  his 
gate  before  they  passed,  and  wishing  to  avoid  another  angry 
encounter.  But  the  white  gate  had  caught,  and  Huntingdon 
dismounted,  swearing  under  his  breath.  As  he  set  foot  in 
stirrup  again,  he  saw  the  chaise  and  its  occupants. 

A  sudden  impulse  urged  John  to  make  the  first  advance 
towards  friendship.  He  touched  his  hat  with  the  whip. 

"Good  morning,  sir,"  he  said. 

Huntingdon  glared  at  them  for  a  moment;  his  mouth 
opened,  and  shut  tightly  again.  He  turned  his  head,  and 
spurred  the  cob  through  the  gate  without  a  word. 

"Well,  he  needn't  speak  if  he  doesn't  want  to,"  said 
John  cheerfully.  "Pity  to  keep  up  a  grudge  like  that,  for 
it'll  take  more  than  sour  looks  to  unmarry  us." 

"I  wonder  you  touch  your  hat  to  him  after  what  passed 
the  other  night,"  growled  George.  "I'd  see  him  hanged 
before  I'd  do  it." 

"Oh,  well,  if  we  do  what's  right,  the  rest's  his  lookout. 
The  trees  show  up  well,  don't  they,  Bess,  with  the  sunshine 
glinting  through  them?  My  word,  we've  a  lovely  day." 

They  halted  for  a  few  minutes  on  the  bridge  at  Sturry, 
to  watch  the  mill-wheel  at  work  and  the  white  water  foam- 
ing down  into  the  green.  "Remember  that  day  we  three 
went  to  Fordwich,  years  ago?"  said  George. 

"Ay,  and  didn't  poor  old  feyther  give  us  a  bannocking 
afterwards  with  that  stick  of  his!  We  shan't  have  to  sit 
sideways  for  a  week  after  this  outing;  won't  be  afraid  of 
going  back  home  to-night,  eh,  George?" 

Half  a  mile  farther  on  brought  them  to  the  sleepy  streets 
of  Fordwich.  Here  they  put  up  the  chaise  at  an  ancient 
inn,  and  then — George  and  John  carrying  the  basket 
between  them — went  down  to  the  quay,  where  once,  in 
old  centuries  when  Fordwich  was  the  port  for  Canterbury, 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  87 

many  a  blunt-nosed  ship  discharged  her  cargo,  many  a 
company  of  knights  and  bowmen,  many  a  motley  throng 
of  pilgrims  from  over-sea,  and  many  a  prince  and  pre- 
late with  their  chattering  retinues  landed  or  embarked. 
The  river  whispered  among  the  reeds,  and  chuckled  softly 
as  it  jostled  past  stones  and  piles  and  tree-boles,  echoing 
dreamily  the  songs,  the  jests,  the  laughter,  of  lips  that  had 
so  long  been  dust. 

There  were  no  Barons  of  Fordwich,  no  Abbots  of  St. 
Augustine  now,  to  fight  and  haggle  over  quay  dues.  John 
bartered  with  an  old  and  drowsy  waterman  for  a  boat,  and 
George,  taking  the  sculls,  pulled  them  past  the  press-yard 
and  beyond  the  tiny  town  into  open  country.  Green  fields 
dotted  with  cattle  sloped  to  the  water's  edge,  and  woods 
lit  by  the  first  glow  of  autumn  fires  closed  round  them. 
Hot  sunshine  made  the  air  languorous  and  delightful;  the 
heat  drew  subtle  odours  from  water,  and  earth,  and  bracken, 
and  late  flowers  on  the  banks;  a  million  diamond  points 
of  light  glittered  and  sparkled  on  the  smooth,  gliding  sur- 
face of  the  stream.  The  gentle  lap  of  water  against  the 
boat  and  the  soft  music  of  trees  and  grasses,  broken  now 
and  then  by  the  rustle  of  birds  in  the  sedge  and  clustered 
foliage — lulled  thought  to  sleep.  George,  rowing  dreamily, 
forgot  for  the  time  his  restlessness,  his  ambitions,  his 
disappointments,  his  broken  promises  to  himself.  After 
the  first  few  minutes  talk  ceased.  Bess  leant  back  on  the 
cushions,  and  trailed  one  hand  through  the  water,  leaving 
a  dimpled  track.  Her  eyes  closed  gradually,  opened  again, 
closed,  and  remained  closed.  It  was  very  pleasant  to 
watch  her,  so  fresh,  so  young,  with  the  long,  dark  lashes 
brushing  the  soft  skin  tinged  by  golden  sunlight,  the  rosy, 
dimpled  cheeks,  the  unruly  hair  almost  black  against  the 
bright  cushions.  Slowly  the  miles  slipped  by.  Conscious- 
ness, always  too  active,  fretting  George's  brain  with  endless 
introspection,  seemed  to  shrink  to  a  pin-point;  he  was  just 


88  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

dreamily  aware  of  the  green  banks,  the  green,  sparkling 
water,  the  girl  dozing  in  the  stern,  his  vague  happiness 
and  existence. 

At  last  John  broke  the  silence  by  suggesting  dinner. 
They  had  reached  a  little  shaw  on  the  river  bank;  the 
boat's  painter  was  fastened  to  a  pollard  willow  bristling 
with  shoots.  Among  tall  trees,  some  brushing  the  water, 
and  spreading  leaves  and  twigs  over  it  as  if  to  catch  the 
sunshine  and  sparkling  river  in  a  net  of  green  and  russet, 
they  found  a  camping  place.  Here,  with  laughter,  and 
talking,  and  occasional  outbursts  of  dismal  but  happy  song 
from  John,  the  basket  was  opened  and  the  meal  shared. 
The  two  men  lit  their  pipes;  all  lay  quiet  again  under  the 
spreading  branches  that  broke  the  sky  into  lozenges  of 
vivid  blue.  Birds  sang  round  them;  a  couple  of  squirrels, 
just  beginning  to  change  their  light,  creamy  summer  gar- 
ments for  ruddy  winter  jackets,  slid  down  a  neighbouring 
oak,  stood  in  silent  consternation  for  a  moment  at  the 
intrusion  on  their  quiet  haunts,  and  scampered  off,  like  a 
flash,  with  a  whisk  of  their  bushy  tails. 

When  they  started  back  from  Fordwich,  the  pageant  of 
sunset  was  nearly  over.  Crimson  and  gold  ran  like  fire 
through  the  sky ;  but  already  moon  and  stars  were  usurping 
the  splendours  of  the  sun  that  had  made  their  day  so 
happy.  In  Blean  woods,  the  trees  merged  together  as  the 
soft  touch  of  night  blurred  their  outlines.  A  carter,  trudg- 
ing uphill  by  his  team,  halted  to  light  his  pipe;  man, 
horses,  wagon,  loomed  out  vague  and  black  from  the  dusk 
of  the  roadside.  The  man's  face  sprang  into  distinctness 
for  a  second  as  the  tinder  caught,  and  was  blotted  out  as 
suddenly.  In  one  of  Huntingdon's  fields  the  last  wain  had 
just  been  loaded.  Ricks  of  the  summer's  hay  rose  high 
against  the  darkening  sky ;  a  dog  kennelled  near  the  house 
barked  savagely  as  they  passed.  Pinion  gave  them  a 
wheezy  "Good-night." 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  89 

As  they  drove  down  towards  the  sea,  the  armies  of  the 
stars  marched  before  them. 

Bess  gave  a  little  shiver,  and  in  an  instant  John  was  all 
solicitude. 

"Cold,  lass?  We'll  soon  be  home  now.  The  nights  are 
getting  chilly." 

"Oh,  no.  I'm — I'm  not  cold,  dear.  Only  somehow — 
I  don't  know — but  the  night  seems  so  grand  and — and 
lonely.  It  frightens  me  a  little.  Do  you  know  that  French 
song,  John,  the  Canadian  boatmen  sing — about  God's 
ocean  being  so  great,  and  our  boats  so  very,  very  small? 
And  the  stars  are  so  far  away — and  so  cold " 

George  woke  from  great  dreams.  "What,  frightened  of 
the  stars,  Bess?"  he  said.  He  had  been  binding  the  influ- 
ences of  Pleiades,  loosing  the  bands  of  Orion;  greater  than 
Mazzaroth  and  Arcturus;  grasping  the  evening  star.  He 
held  up  his  hand.  "Why,  look  here,"  he  said.  "That's 
bigger  than  a  hundred  worlds.  I  like  to  think  my  eyes'll 
take  in  all  those  millions  on  millions  of  miles." 

John  laughed.  "Put  your  hand  down  again,  George, 
when  you've  done  shutting  the  worlds  out,"  he  said.  "I 
want  to  see  the  road.  I  reckon  God  must  be  pretty  busy, 
keeping  'em  all  spinning;  it's  a  wonder  He  never  forgets 
our  bread-and-butters." 

"We'll  have  better'n  that  soon,"  said  George,  and,  com- 
ing down  to  earth  again,  made  even  his  brother  share  some 
of  his  enthusiasm  about  the  future  of  the  Running  Horse. 

When  they  reached  the  inn,  cool-cheeked  and  bright-eyed 
after  their  drive,  all  seemed  knit  more  closely  by  the  happy 
day  spent  together.  Even  old  Blossom  nuzzled  against 
George  as  he  led  her  to  her  stall.  Indoors  they  discovered 
the  spinet,  which  had  arrived  from  Sturry  that  afternoon. 

"Oh,  John!"  cried  Bess,  seeing  through  her  husband's 
slender  pretence  of  ignorance  at  once,  and  ran  to  open  it — 
but  flew  back,  half-way,  to  kiss  the  giver. 


90  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"George  helped  choose  it,"  said  John.  "You  ought 

to "  The  memory  of  the  previous  night  flashed  through 

his  mind,  but,  rather  than  remind  his  brother,  he  finished 
his  sentence  almost  without  a  pause.  "You  ought  to  kiss 
him  for  his  share,  lass." 

Bess  coloured.  "I — we  must  do  that  some  other  time, 
in  private,"  she  said,  among  the  chuckles  of  the  taproom 
guests.  Smoothing  her  wind-blown  hair,  she  seated  her- 
self before  the  instrument.  A  few  uncertain  notes  trinkled 
out  sweetly.  Young  girls,  who  had  grown  up,  and  mar- 
ried, and  heard  children  of  their  own  play  it,  had  strummed 
their  exercises  long  ago  on  the  yellow  keys;  it  had  joined 
in  the  mirth  of  old  wedding  parties,  of  many  a  jovial 
gathering;  and  dainty  fingers  that  had  once  moved  so 
lightly  over  it  had  long  been  dust  under  iron-railed  vaults 
and  the  weeds  and  ivy  of  the  churchyard.  There  were  hints 
of  long,  drowsy  summer  afternoons,  of  candle-light,  and  the 
swish  of  silken  dresses,  and  lavender  and  pot-pourri,  and 
old  lace,  in  its  music.  And  now,  at  the  inn,  Bess's  fingers, 
wandering  over  the  keys,  found  there  buried  sweetness, 
sad  memories  of  old  happiness,  old  songs,  old  love-stories. 

"Let's  have  a  song,  lass,"  cried  John,  and  was  echoed 
by  the  others.  All  sat  silent;  the  first  notes  of  her  clear 
young  voice  sounded,  low  and  sweet,  attuned  to  the  haunt- 
ing melancholy  with  which  starry  night  and  the  music  had 
already  put  her  mind  in  touch. 

"  Pale-cheeked,  my  lady  watched  in  doubt, 

Love  in  her  eyes  lay  hiding, 
But  roses  blushed,  and  love  rushed  out, 
When  she  saw  her  lord  come  riding, 

Riding,  riding. 

"A  dinted  helm  he'd  on  his  head, 

A  shattered  lance  was  bearing, 
'But  what  of  that?'  my  lady  said, 
'When  his  griefs  I  now  am  sharing, 

Sharing,  sharing. ' 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  91 

"They  sate  them  in  the  arrased  room, 

Wine  and  good  fare  not  missing; 
'Now  eat  and  drink,  dear  lord:  let  gloom 
Find  no  place  when  we  are  kissing, 

Kissing,  kissing. 

"'Safe  home!'  my  lady  cried.   'Alack!' 

Sighed  he,  '  my  dear  love,  yonder 

My  plighted  word  must  take  me  back, 

I  again  from  home  must  wander, 

Wander,  wander. 

'"My  word  is  pledged  to  cruel  foes, 

This  sennight  us  must  sever; 
We'll  sup  on  love  until  it  close, 
When  we  say  farewell  for  ever, 

Ever,  ever.' 

'"Oh,  give  them  these,'  my  lady  cried, 

'My  jewels,  the  best  outvying, 
And  I  will  pray  that  He  who  died 
Keep  you  safe  from  chains  and  dying, 

Dying,  dying.' 

"He  rode  away  at  break  of  dawn; 

She,  when  the  sun  was  rosing 
The  ivory  rood,  sank  down  forlorn, 
On  her  knees  till  long  day's  closing, 

Closing,  closing. 

"Pale-cheeked,  my  lady  watched  in  doubt, 

Love  in  her  eyes  lay  hiding; 
The  winter  passed;  the  buds  came  out; 
But  no  more  her  lord  came  riding, 

Riding,  riding." 

"My,  that's  a  sad  song,  Bess,  lass, "  said  John.  "Sounds 
as  dismal  as  one  of  mine,  I  reckon.  Let's  have  something 
more  cheerful  now. "  John  blew  his  nose  loudly.  "Pretty 
song  though;  makes  us  feel  as  if  we've  all  got  to  die  some 
day,  and  leave  those  dear  to  us;  but  let's  hope,  please 


92  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

God,  that's  a  very  long  way  off.  Now  give  us  something 
to  make  us  laugh. "  Sad  stories  affected  John  very  readily, 
and  his  own  happiness  made  him  feel  tenderly  now  towards 
any  true  lovers'  sadness. 

"Soft-hearted  old  chap,  you  are,  John,"  said  George, 
clapping  his  hand  on  his  brother's  shoulder.  "Now,  Bess, 
finish  up  the  funeral  with  something  lively!" 

Her  lissom  fingers  ran  over  the  notes;  in  a  minute  or 
two  she  had  set  all  heads  nodding,  all  feet  tapping;  she 
sang  an  arch,  merry  little  song  ending  amid  a  storm  of 
laughter  and  clapping.  Then  George  sang  one  or  two  army 
songs,  and  snatches  from  Portugal  and  Spain: 

"  Vivir  in  Cadenas, 
Quan'  trist'  es  vivir, 
Morir  por  la  Patria, 
Quan'  bello  morir." 

"How  mournful  to  live,  when  in  bondage  we  sigh, 
While  to  die  for  our  country,  how  Godlike  to  die!" 


the  song  of  the  Spanish  patriots,  struggling  to  free  their 
country  from  the  yoke  of  Napoleon  and  King  Joseph;  or 
La  mujer  es  un  angel  del  cielo,  or  Cuando  suena  la  trompa 
guerrera — passionate  songs  of  love  and  war,  that  he  had 
heard  in  Cuesta's  camp,  or  in  many  a  village  where  the 
young  men  and  maidens  came,  after  the  heat  of  the  day, 
to  dance  their  fandangos  and  boleros  and  to  sing  to  the 
music  of  bagpipe  or  guitar.  The  words  sung  now  in  the 
inn  parlour,  with  the  lamplight  flickering  on  bronzed  faces 
in  the  taproom,  seen  through  the  open  door,  brought  back 
to  him  vividly  those  half-forgotten  scenes  in  the  life  he  had 
left  behind — the  low,  painted  cottages,  the  lean  pigs  and 
pariah  dogs  rooting  and  sniffing  among  garbage,  the  short- 
skirted,  brown-skinned,  dark-eyed  girls,  so  haughtily  grace- 
ful, the  men  scowling  even  in  their  hour  of  enjoyment,  the 
watching,  jesting,  half-drunken  soldiers,  and,  beyond  all, 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  93 

a  glorious  background  of  mauve  mountains  rising  above 
dark  forests  into  a  sky  all  blue  and  saffron.  A  little  of 
what  he  saw  entered  the  minds  of  his  auditors;  George 
had  the  pleasing  consciousness  that  his  efforts  held  the 
stage  of  their  thoughts  for  a  time.  He  even,  amid  great 
enthusiasm,  volunteered  imitations  of  some  of  the  native 
dances,  and  made  Bess  join  him. 

A  fisherman  rolled  out  a  deep  bass  chanty;  John,  after 
much  demur,  sang  a  harvest  song  in  old  Kent  dialect; 
George  thumped  out  choruses  to  which  all  lent  their  voices 
— all  save  Delilah,  who  had  scruples  about  the  seemliness 
of  such  mirth. 

When  closing  time  came,  John  and  Bess  and  George 
stood  for  a  few  moments  at  the  door  of  the  inn,  with  the 
last  strains  still  ringing  in  their  ears.  The  sea  was  all 
silvered  with  bright  moonlight.  The  masts  of  a  collier  on 
the  beach  stood  out  very  clearly  and  distinctly,  in  ink- 
black  silhouette.  It  was  a  perfect  night,  closing  a  perfect 
day.  They  clung  to  the  last  moments  of  the  evening  as 
if  they  could  hold  the  silvered  skirts  of  it,  and  keep  it  and 
their  happiness  from  speeding  back  into  the  past,  where 
so  many  happy  days  have  gone — perhaps  to  be  stored,  and 
given  back, 


CHAPTER  VII 

WHEN  Spring  scattered  her  largesse  of  primrose  gold 
over  coppice  and  hedgerow,  the  Running  Horse 
prepared  to  welcome  fortune.  The  last  guinea  of  Mrs. 
Kennett's  legacy  had  changed  to  bricks  and  mortar 
early  in  autumn;  George  had  succeeded  in  persuading  his 
brother  to  raise  a  mortgage  on  the  inn,  and  much  of 
this  money  had  gone  into  the  pockets  of  furniture- 
dealers  and  the  builders.  John  tried  to  silence  his  mis- 
givings by  remembering  the  text  that  had  promised 
them  success. 

It  was  a  relief  to  all  of  them  when  Summer's  laughing 
messenger  chased  Winter  from  the  land.  George,  missing 
the  excitement  of  former  years,  chafed  at  the  sunless  days, 
the  narrow  circle  of  their  neighbours,  the  long  evenings  when 
Stebbings  recast  the  British  Constitution,  and  Pinion 
wheedled  ale  out  of  his  neighbours,  and  Homersham  the 
miller  prosed  about  great  hoary,  and  yellow  hammer,  and 
white  straw.  He  thought  of  southern  sunshine;  the  call 
of  the  sea  was  in  his  ears;  the  fifes  and  drums  of  winter 
storms,  rattling  at  his  window,  stirred  memories  of  old 
ambitions,  not  quite  dead.  Sometimes  his  discontent 
showed  itself  in  open  irritation;  now  and  then,  in  drunken 
lapses,  soon  repented  and  readily  forgiven.  "You  see, 
Bess,"  he  said  once  in  self-excuse,  "I've  got  something  to 
grumble  at,  I  have.  All  these  years  of  fighting,  and  nothing 
to  show  for  'em — that's  enough  to  make  a  man  savage 
when  he  thinks  of  it.  I  ought  to  have  got  on;  I'm  not  a 
fool.  I  reckon  I  would  have  if  I'd  been  in  Boney's  army 
instead  of  ours.  He  knew  the  way  to  treat  soagers;  for 
all  his  faults,  I'll  say  that  about  him.  Look  at  those  Mar- 
shals of  his — Prince  of  this,  Duke  of  that,  King  of  t'other 

94 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  95 

place;  nearly  all  of  'em  in  the  ranks  to  begin  with.  Look 
at  Murat — an  innkeeper's  son  like  me,  and  King  of  Naples 
before  he'd  done!" 

"And  he's  just  been  shot,  poor  man,"  said  Bess. 

"  What  of  that?  He'd  lived,  anyway.  Did  you  hear  how 
he  went  into  Moscow?  He  changed  in  his  tent  outside  the 
city,  putting  on  his  most  splendid  clothes,  and  jewels,  and 
rings  in  his  very  ears;  and  then  mounted  his  best  charger, 
trapped  out  as  fine  as  its  master  was  himself.  And  the 
wild  Cossacks  near  the  walls,  when  they  saw  his  plume 
above  all  the  rest,  came  crowding  round  him,  cheering  and 
shouting,  and  crying  out  that  he  was  their  chief.  They 
were  enemies,  too,  mind  you.  I  hear  he  flung  them  every 
penny  he  had,  and  his  watch  even — like  a  king. " 

George  paced  up  and  down  the  room  in  his  excitement. 
For  the  moment,  he  was  Murat,  flinging  royal  largesse  to 
the  acclaiming  crowd. 

Bess  went  on  with  her  sewing,  but  her  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Did  you  hear  how  he  came  into  Naples,  too?  People  all 
cheering,  banners  waving  everywhere,  flowers,  music,  all 
along  to  his  palace!  An  innkeeper's  son,  mind  you." 

"But  if  he'd  never  been  a  king,"  said  Bess,  "he  might 
have  been  alive  now,  with  his  wife  and  children.  Look 
at  this,  now,  George;  isn't  it  pretty?" 

"It's  all  right,"  said  George,  scarcely  glancing  at  the 
work  she  held  up  for  his  inspection.  "I  reckon  that  hour 
outside  Moscow  and  that  hour  in  the  streets  of  Naples 
were  worth  a  dozen  long  lives  like  other  folk  have  to  live. 
They  don't  give  away  no  kingdoms  or  dukedoms  or  palaces 
in  our  army.  We  reckoned  ourselves  lucky  if  we  got  our 
rations  regular,  and  pay  not  more'n  three  months  over- 
due. When  I  'listed,  I  was  young  fool  enough  to  swallow 
all  the  recruiters  told  me  about  gold  and  glory.  I've  often 
wished  I'd  let  mother  pay  the  smart  money  as  she  offered 
to." 


96  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"  Perhaps  you're  just  as  happy  without  the  glory,  really, 
George.  I  daresay  Murat  wished  he  was  only  an  innkeeper 
when  he  wrote  that  last  letter  to  his  poor  wife — 

"Oh,  if  I  was  married "  George  stammered,  and 

went  out. 

But  with  spring,  and  the  completion  of  their  plans,  he 
shook  off  his  discontent.  All  England  looked  forward  to 
the  days  of  plenty,  after  so  many  lean  and  miserable  years. 
He  saw  himself  again,  in  a  narrower  circle,  a  hero  and  a 
child  of  fortune. 

Early  in  May  the  Kennetts  gave  a  house-warming  to 
inaugurate  the  new  buildings,  and  invited  Captain  and  Mrs. 
Rockett  and  Mrs.  Rockett's  mother,  Mrs.  Gowdy,  an 
aged  and  decrepit  dame  who  hibernated  like  a  bear  or  a 
tortoise  throughout  the  winter,  and  rarely  appeared  during 
other  months  save  on  holidays  and  high  days.  But  she 
had  an  inordinate  appetite  for  pork,  a  dish  usually  for- 
bidden because  of  its  effects;  and  most  of  her  sheltered 
life  was  devoted  to  manoeuvres  to  obtain  it.  John  induced 
Mrs.  Rockett  to  consider  the  house-warming  as  a  birthday, 
the  only  occasions  on  which  the  veto  was  withdrawn,  and 
lured  Mrs.  Gowdy  from  her  room  by  using  pork  for  bait. 

Late  on  a  spring  morning,  then,  picture  the  little  pro- 
cession coming  from  Captain  Rockett's  cottage  under  the 
lee  of  the  downs,  en  route  to  the  Running  Horse.  The  old 
lady  led  the  way,  in  a  wheeled  contrivance  which  Captain 
Rockett — ingenious  man — had  constructed  for  her  use.  A 
year  or  so  back  she  had  travelled  to  church  in  this  on 
fine  Sundays.  An  unfortunate  habit  for  which  senility  was 
responsible — the  habit  of  expressing  her  thoughts  aloud  and 
unconsciously — had  put  a  stop  to  these  attendances.  One 
Sunday  morning,  in  the  middle  of  the  prayers,  her  high, 
cracked  old  voice  had  startled  the  congregation  by  re- 
marking, "What  a  hidjus  bonnet  the  Squire's  lady  do 
wear,  to  be  sure!  I  wonder  what  dese  great  leddies  be  a- 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  97 

coming  to!"  She  was  hustled  out,  to  her  amazement,  in 
the  midst  of  a  disquisition  on  the  colour  of  a  warden's 
nose;  and  henceforward  the  wheeled  chair  was  only  used 
to  take  her  for  occasional  airings. 

On  this  May  morning  Captain  Rockett  tested  the  vehicle 
by  jumping  on  it,  Mrs.  Rockett  declining  the  experiment — 
remembering  a  trial  trip  which  had  deposited  her  in  a  rub- 
bish heap,  dangerously  near  a  row  of  hives.  Its  stability 
having  been  certified,  the  old  lady,  in  rustling  black  silk, 
with  a  towering  cap  decked  with  ornaments  like  a  Christ- 
mas tree,  was  carefully  inserted  and  strapped  down. 

"Comfortable,  Mrs.  Gowdy?"    asked  Rockett. 

"Comfortable,  mother?"    echoed  Mrs.  Rockett. 

"  Wery,  thank  you,  Samuel.  Wery,  thank  you,  my  dear. 
Needn't  have  strapped  me  in  so  tight,  though;  this  strap'll 
cut  me  in  half  if  Samuel  upsets  me. " 

It  was  loosened  immediately,  to  her  surprise.  "Ready, 
Martha,  my  dear?"  cried  the  Captain.  "Up  with  the 
anchor  then,  and  let  her  go." 

First  went  Mrs.  Gowdy  in  her  triumphal  car,  straining 
forward  against  the  strap,  with  laces  and  bugles  and  dang- 
ling ornaments  all  quivering  and  jingling  as  the  wheels 
bumped  over  the  shingle-strewn  path.  Behind,  pushing 
the  chair,  his  face  scarlet  with  his  exertions,  in  vivid  con- 
trast to  his  snow-white  hair,  came  little  Captain  Rockett, 
puffing  and  blowing,  and  muttering  nautical  orders  which 
he  himself  had  to  carry  out.  Mrs.  Rockett,  fat,  stately, 
sleepy  about  the  eyes  as  if  she  had  just  finished  a  good 
dinner  instead  of  being  on  the  way  to  one,  came  next, 
holding  her  best  gown  well  above  the  ground.  A  few  small, 
bare-footed  fisher-children  brought  up  the  rear,  making 
rude  remarks  about  Guy  Fawkes  and  Popeing  day,  until 
one  of  the  tinier  girls,  tender-hearted,  began  to  cry,  under 
the  sudden  conviction  that  the  poor  old  lady  was  really 
on  her  way  to  be  burned  amid  fireworks. 


98  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Mrs.  Rockett  consoled  her  with  a  penny,  and  scattered 
the  others  like  chickens  before  the  hawk. 

A  new  sign-board,  showing  a  white  horse,  swung  before 
the  inn,  "The  wery  image  of  old  Blossom,"  said  Captain 
Rockett,  to  that  poor  quadruped's  disparagement.  Blos- 
som's old  stable  had  vanished  in  a  cloud  of  white  dust, 
and  now  a  new  and  more  spacious  building  stood  in  its 
place.  On  the  site  of  the  paddock  rose  a  flimsy  modern 
structure,  with  another  sitting-room,  and  bedrooms,  fur- 
nished in  the  latest  style  of  provincial  art  ninety  years 
ago.  The  timber  front  of  the  inn  had  been  repainted.  The 
appearance  of  John  and  Bess  and  Mrs.  Gowdy's  ill-con- 
cealed impatience  (she  had  scented  the  pork  from  afar, 
as  a  war-horse  scents  the  battle)  brought  Captain  Rockett's 
comments  to  an  abrupt  conclusion. 

There  were  brand-new  tables  and  benches  in  the  tap- 
room; pewter  polished  to  look  like  silver  was  ranged  be- 
hind the  bar;  even  the  old  clock  had  had  its  face  and 
hands  washed,  and  looked  surlier  than  ever  after  the 
operation.  But  Bess  had  saved  the  fine  old  beams  which 
George  had  wished  to  whitewash,  and  John  had  insisted 
on  the  parlour  remaining  unaltered. 

George  was  in  high  spirits,  showing  this  and  that,  and 
naming  the  cost  and  his  economies.  Captain  Rockett's 
admiration  gratified  all.  They  took  their  seats  at  table. 
Mrs.  Gowdy  said  a  loud  and  rather  too  premature  "  Amen  " 
to  the  grace,  and  purred  "Pork,  please" — her  wrinkled 
face  puckered  with  pleasure — almost  before  she  had  been 
asked.  All  were  merry;  all  but  Delilah,  whose  habitual 
gloom  added  to  the  general  mirth. 

"Why,  'Lilah,  what  are  you  sighing  for  now?"  asked 
John,  catching  an  ominous  sound  as  she  handed  round 
the  plates.  "Mustn't  do  that  to-day,  of  all  days." 

"Oh,  my!"  she  said,  her  freckled  face  clouding,  "it  do 
remind  me  so,  all  this,  of  Maud  Popple — Maud  Hickman 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  99 

that  was — when  she  and  her  husband  took  on  the  under- 
taking. Jim  Popple's  feyther  was  only  a  wirgin " 

"A  wirgin?"    Captain  Rockett  screwed  up  his  eyes. 

"  Yes,  Captain  Rockett,  at  Hunter's  Forstall  Church " 

"Bless  the  girl!    Werger,  she  means." 

"Werger  or  wirgin,  I  dunno  the  names  of  these  church 
institutions, "  said  Delilah,  with  the  contempt  of  a  regular 
attendant  at  Ebenezer  Chapel;  "but  he  set  them  up  in  a 
nice  little  general  shop.  'Fore  wery  long,  Maud  got  so 
eaten  up  with  sinful  pride  that  she  made  her  husband 
bury  folk  as  well,  to  keep  her  in  fine  clothes  and  spending 
money.  But 

"  '  Not  so,  the  impious  and  unjust; 
What  wain  designs  they  form! 
Their  hopes  are  blown  away  like  dust, 
Or  chaff  before  the  storm.' 

And  so  it  was  with  her,  like  Dr.  Watts  says.  For  dreckly 
they'd  started,  people  seemed  to  stop  dying,  as  if  Provi- 
dence didn't  mean  such  wicked  wanity  to  prosper;  and 
the  first  funeral  her  husband  had  was  his  own." 

She  went  out,  shaking  her  head  mournfully,  to  fetch 
the  pudding. 

"She's  a  rare  one  for  the  horribles,  is  'Lilah!"  said 
John.  "I've  only  seen  her  really  cheerful  once,  and  that 
was  when  she  went  to  stay  with  her  aunt  at  Maidstone, 
and  told  us  how  she'd  shook  hands  with  the  hangman. " 

"Most  people'd  rather  have  as  little  to  do  with  him  as 
possible, "  said  George,  laughing. 

"Well,  she  ain't  a  wery  cheerful  person  for  a  house- 
warming,  I  must  say,  John,"  said  Mrs.  Rockett.  "T'other 
night  I  was  dreaming  about  Dr.  Watts,  after  one  of  those 
dreadful  hymns  of  hers.  I  dreamt  I  was  in  the  other 
world " 

"Wasn't  quite  sure  which,  though,  Martha,  was  you?" 
said  her  husband,  slyly. 


100  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

"And  there  was  old  Dr.  Watts,  a-standing  by  himself, 
in  a  tie-wig  and  snuff-coloured  clothes,  singing  his  own 
hymns.  Not  the  nice  ones,  I  don't  mean.  And  he  caught 
sight  of  me  watching,  and  made  me  join  in,  though  I 
can't  sing  a  note,  my  dear. " 

"She  did  it  out  loud  too!"  chuckled  Captain  Rockett. 
"Woke  me  up,  she  did — and  such  words!  Hell,  and 
damned,  and — there,  Martha,  you  ought  to  have  took 
lessons  from  the  two  Miss  Barbers  of  Bristol.  Ever  tell 
you  about  them?" 

They  had  pushed  back  their  chairs,  and  Captain  Rockett 
lit  his  pipe  and  continued. 

"  'Twas  when  I  was  in  the  old  Lydia,  two-and-thirty 
— no,  three-and-thirty  year  ago.  One  arternoon  we  picked 
up  a  man  who'd  escaped  from  the  Barbary  pirates.  He 
told  us  he'd  been  wrecked  off  Sicily,  and  they  found  him 
sitting  on  a  rock,  like  a  mermaid.  Dreckly  he  got  aboard 
their  dhow,  he  saw  two  white  women — wery  white  indeed, 
they  were  just  then — drawn  up  ready  to  have  their  heads 
shored  off  with  a  scimitar  which  a  nigger  was  busy  sharp- 
ening. 'Be  deaf  and  dumb,'  they  piped,  'for  the  love  of 
heaven,  be  deaf  and  dumb,  Mr.  Porter.'  I  forgot  to  say 
his  name  was  Porter. " 

"Oh,  my!"  gasped  Delilah,  thrilling  at  the  situation. 
"But  how  did  they  know  his  name,  Cap'n?" 

"Saw  it  on  his  shirt-tail,  which  was  flapping  in  the 
wind — a  terrible  shocking  sight  for  two  old  maids,"  said 
Captain  Rockett,  promptly. 

"  'For  the  love  of  heaven,'  they  piped,  'be  deaf  and 
dumb,  or  he'll  have  us  killed  dead  for  certain.'  Well, 
they  were  as  ugly  as  sin,  but  he  didn't  want  'em  killed  on 
that  account,  and  he  told  'em  he  wouldn't  speak.  Least- 
ways,"  Captain  Rockett  said,  with  a  forbidding  glance  at 
his  wife,  who  was  opening  her  mouth,  "he  winked  at  'em 
like  this  to  show  he  wouldn't.  He  didn't  know  what  a 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  101 

starf  they  was  at,  but  the  Turkish  skipper  boffled  him 
still  worse  by  axing  him  questions  in  English — though  such 
English  you  never  did  hear  outside  the  covers  of  a  book. 
The  Cap'n  seemed  rare  and  angry  when  he  wouldn't  speak, 
and  swore  at  Porter  something  'orrid;  though  the  worst 
words  he  knew  were  'Fie'  and  'Bother.'  You  see,  he'd 
only  kept  the  two  old  maids  to  learn  him  English — 'specially 
strong  language.  Well,  Porter  kept  ail-on  being  dumb,  and 
every  day  that  long-bearded  old  skipper  took  his  lessons 
regular  from  the  Misses  Barber.  Porter  told  me  it  made 
his  flesh  creep  to  hear  that  cut-throat  willain  saying  them 
old-maid  swears — 'Fie,'  and  'Bother,'  and  'Shocking/ 
and " 

"Oh,  my!"   murmured  Delilah. 

"  'Twas  so  onnatural.  Of  course,  when  they  corned  to 
Algier,  he  had  no  more  manner  of  use  for  the  ladies,  and 
as  he  couldn't  sell  'em  in  the  market,  he  got  his  scimitar 
to  cut  their  throats. 

"They  was  a-shrieking  for  help — Porter  would  have 
helped  them  willing  enough,  he  said,  but  six  big  rascals 
had  him  by  the  legs — when  who  should  come  along  but 
the  Dey  hisself ,  riding  on  a  white  donkey.  '  Any  nice  fresh 
slaves  to-day,  Bill?'  he  axed  (I  forget  ezackly  what  the 
skipper's  name  was),  same  as  you  or  I  might  ax  about  a 
catch  of  fish.  'There's  a  man  might  do  for  your  honour,' 
says  he,  pointing  to  Porter.  'I  wish  I  might,'  thoft 
Porter.  Well,  the  Dey  bought  him,  and  then  looked  at 
the  two  old  maidens  of  Bristol.  It  was  wonnerful,  Porter 
said,  what  a  lot  of  screams  them  two  small  bodies  held. 
'Two  nice  old  ladies  going  cheap,  your  Majesty,'  said  the 
skipper,  '  wery  useful  for  sticking  up  at  your  harem  windows 
with  their  weils  off,  to  frighten  folks  away!'  The  Dey 
was  going  off  in  contempt,  when  a  thought  struck  him. 
'I'll  take  'em,'  he  said;  'send  'em  up  to  the  house  with 
the  man.' 


102  RUNNING   HORSE  INN 

"It  so  happened  about  this  time  that  the  Dey  had  caught 
his  greatest  enemy,  and  was  trying  to  think  of  new  tor- 
tures. He  had  him  brought  into  the  room  in  the  Palace 
where  the  two  old  maids  were  shaking  and  shivering, 
wondering  whether  they  were  in  for  a  honeymoon  or 
death.  'I'm  going  to  be  wery  merciful,'  he  said;  'I'm 
going  to  give  you  a  choice.  Will  you  prefer  boiling  oil, 
or  to  marry  these  here  ladies?' 

"The  Sheikh  began  to  jump  for  joy,  almost — until  they 
took  the  weils  off.  Then  he  turned  very  pale;  but  he  shut 
his  eyes,  and  was  just  going  to  say  he'd  take  the  ladies. 

"  'To  have  and  to  hold,  mind,  till  death  do  you  part,' 
the  Dey  reminded  him.  He  opened  his  eyes  again  for  one 
more  glance,  and  the  Miss  Barbers,  knowing  that  their 
fates  were  trembling  in  the  balance,  tried  to  look  as  in- 
witing  as  they  could,  and  nudged  each  other  to  smile. 
And  that  was  too  much  for  the  Sheikh.  'Please,  Dey,' 
he  said,  'I'd  rather  have  the  boiling  oil,  if  it's  all  the  same 
to  you.' 

"  'I  doan't  like  to  be  too  sewere,'  said  the  Dey,  smiling 
pleasantly,  as  if  he'd  just  thoft  of  something  more  merciful. 

"The  Sheikh  cheered  up  at  that,  and  banged  the  floor 
with  his  head,  which  means  being  respectful  in  the  East. 
'O  Dey,'  he  said,  'live  for  ever!' 

"  'The  same  to  you,'  said  the  Dey,  with  a  benevolent 
smile,  'and  may  your  beard  never  grow  less!' 

"Then  he  married  him  on  the  spot  to  the  unfortunate 
maiden  ladies  of  Bristol." 

Captain  Rockett  puffed  at  his  pipe.  "What  queer 
things  do  happen  in  foreign  parts,  now!"  said  his  wife, 
innocently.  "I  couldn't  hardly  believe  some  of  the  things 
Samuel  says,  if  he  didn't  assure  me  they  were  true. " 

"True  as  I'm  sitting  here,  my  dear,"  said  Rockett, 
rising  to  take  his  tankard  from  Delilah,  and  winking 
solemnly  at  John.  "You  and  Bess  are  luckier  than  that 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  103 

there  Sheikh,  John,  being  married  to  the  two  people  you 
want.  Well,  here's  luck  to  the  Running  Horse!  Can't 
you  give  us  a  song,  Bess?" 

Bess  sang — not  her  dismal  ballad,  this  time — while 
George  turned  over  the  leaves  of  her  music.  Now  and 
then  their  fingers  met  and  touched  as  they  fumbled  with 
the  clinging  page;  George,  stooping  over  her,  felt  her  hair 
brush  his  cheeks,  and  his  heart  quickened.  The  obser- 
vant Mrs.  Gowdy,  eyeing  them  from  her  great  chair, 
muttered,  "I  declare  now,  George  seems  more  like  her 
lover  than  her  own  husband  is.  Never  did  understand 
why  they  weren't  married,  they  two."  Bess  blushed; 
George  drew  aside  a  little  awkwardly ;  '  n  gave  his  great, 
honest,  unsuspecting  laugh,  and  clapped  his  brother  on 
the  back.  "Mrs.  Gowdy  don't  believe  in  only  boy-and- 
girl  affairs,  George.  My  word,  she'll  make  me  jealous. 
Why,  what's  the  matter,  George?" 

George  had  winced,  and  shaken  himself  free  from  the 
rough  embrace. 

"N — nothing,"  he  stammered,  flushing  red.  "I — I — 
my  wound  stings  a  bit  at  times,  old  fellow. " 

"Clumsy  fool  I  am!"  muttered  John,  in  self-reproach. 
Mrs.  Rockett  was  reproving  her  mother.  "Hush,  mother," 
she  said;  "you  mustn't  say  such  things.  People  mightn't 
like  it.  You  mustn't  mind  her,  my  dears,"  she  added,  in 
a  louder  voice,  glancing  round  the  little  circle  with  an 
apologetic  smile. 

"Me?  I  never  spoke  a  word,  my  dear!"  protested  Mrs. 
Gowdy. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  the  pork  had  its  usual  effect 
on  the  old  lady.  Outwardly  still  amiable,  her  spoken 
thoughts  showed  that  indigestion  was  ruffling  her  good 
nature.  After  thanking  people  for  their  songs  in  the  sweet- 
est and  most  smiling  manner,  her  cap  would  suddenly 
quiver  ominously,  and  she  would  burst  out  with  some 


104  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

startling  comment,  muttered,  but  quite  audible.  "Thank 
you,  George,  wery  pretty,  them  foreign  songs.  .  .  . 
Why  can't  he  sing  them  in  Christian  words,  I  wonder, 
so  that  folk  can  understand  what  he's  saying?  .  .  . 
You'll  have  to  give  us  some  of  your  songs  at  home,  now, 
Samuel.  ...  I  hope  Martha  won't  dream  of  letting 
him;  bad  enough  listening  to  them  yarns  of  his — packs 
of  lies,  every  one  of  them.  Why  couldn't  he  sing  at  once 
when  he  was  axed,  and  get  it  over?  Spoils  all  the  pleasure 
for  me,  when  people  want  so  much  pressing." 

This  running  fire  of  acrimonious  comment,  all  the  more 
effective  because  unconscious  (for  Mrs.  Gowdy  made  ob- 
vious efforts  to  b^  •».  agreeable  guest),  fell  on  the  company 
as  if  naked  Truth  were  being  entertained  in  a  roomful  of 
well-clad  people,  and  sprinkling  them,  at  each  movement, 
with  cold  water  from  the  well  out  of  which  she  had  just 
been  drawn.  When  she  began  to  mutter  remarks  about 
the  dinner,  and  ascribe  her  growing  discomfort  (always 
the  penalty  for  indulgence)  to  Bess's  cooking,  Captain 
and  Mrs.  Rockett  decided  that  it  was  time  to  wheel  her 
home. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  Captain's  lady  to  Bess,  at 
the  door,  "I'm  sure  we  wish  you  all  success — though 
that's  bound  to  come.  You're  ready  now  to  make  hay 
when  the  sun  shines,  as  the  saying  goes. " 

"I'll  try  and  send  you  along  any  respectable  folk  I 
bring  down  in  the  hoy,  John,"  cried  Captain  Rockett, 
turning  his  head,  and  nearly  upsetting  his  aged  passenger 
against  the  post  of  the  yard  gateway.  "Hello,  where  am 
I  steering  to,  I  wonder?" 

"  Good-bye, "  piped  Mrs.  Gowdy,  nodding  violently,  until 
every  bugle  and  scrap  of  lace  in  her  cap  tossed  as  in  a  tem- 
pest, "best  wishes  to  you  all,  my  dears."  But  before  she 
was  out  of  the  yard  she  muttered  the  uppermost  thought. 

"Wery  silly  of  them,  I'm  sure,  to  lash  out  like  that. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  105 

Must  be  wiser  than  their  feythers,  I  suppose;  always  the 
way  with  young  folks.  All  the  geese  nowadays  want  to 
lay  golden  eggs,  it  seems  to  me. " 

"Hush,  mother,  hush,"  protested  Mrs.  Rockett. 

"Me?  I  was  only  wishing  them  good  luck,  my  dear." 
But  as  she  was  wheeled  off,  her  head  bobbing  like  a  swim- 
ming dab-chick's,  they  heard  her  mutter,  "Martha's  get- 
ting much  too  interfering;  she  may  be  sixty,  but  she 
hasn't  caught  up  to  me  yet  by  more'n  twenty  year." 

During  the  next  week  or  two,  George  devoted  some  of 
his  leisure  to  coaching  Delilah,  in  readiness  for  the  time 
when  the  inn  would  be  filled  with  guests.  When  he  was  a 
boy,  the  two  had  had  many  a  battle  royal;  his  lapses  into 
drunkenness  and  his  open  contempt  for  her  narrow  view 
of  life  had  long  outworn  his  welcome,  and  she  proved  an 
irritable  and  rebellious  pupil.  Bess  was  a  little  more  suc- 
cessful; but  even  Bess  found  it  beyond  her  powers  to  pre- 
vent 'Lilah's  dismal  interpellations  at  meals,  or  to  cure  her 
of  jerking  her  freckled  thumb  towards  the  new  coffee- 
room,  with  the  gruff  announcement,  "Dinner's  ready." 
But  the  room  was  too  rarely  occupied. 

"Seems  to  me,"  said  'Lilah,  gloomily,  some  time  after 
the  house-warming,  "we've  swept  and  garnished,  and  now 
the  spirits  won't  enter.  Trade's  not  so  good  in  the  tap- 
room neither,  so  our  last  state's  worse  than  our  first." 

Indeed,  poverty,  famine,  disease,  debt,  "the  beadles 
and  guardsmen  that  hold  us  to  common  sense,"  were 
bludgeoning  Europe  after  its  long  folly,  and  the  Kennetts, 
in  their  quiet  corner,  did  not  escape  their  blows.  The 
year  1816,  hailed  so  eagerly  now  that  the  wars  were  over 
and  Buonaparte  chained  to  his  rock,  proved  one  of  almost 
unbroken  gloom,  of  terrible  and  appalling  distress;  Eng- 
land has  experienced  few  such  years  in  her  long  history. 
The  national  debt;  the  senseless  luxury  of  the  rich;  paper 
money;  machinery;  corn  laws — men  ascribed  the  distress 


106  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

to  a  hundred  causes,  groping  blindly  for  solutions  and  for 
remedies.  In  the  home  counties,  labourers,  with  wives 
and  children  to  keep,  were  working  for  sixpence  a  day. 
Disbanded  soldiers  made  the  roads  unsafe;  gangs  of  armed 
poachers  haunted  the  woods;  smugglers  held  the  coast- 
line. In  May  the  mills  at  Norwich  were  broken  into,  and 
fire-balls  thrown  among  the  merchandise;  while  at  the 
other  end  of  England,  at  Bideford,  the  North  Devon 
Yeomanry  were  hunting  down  prison-breakers,  and  try- 
ing to  protect  the  shipment  of  food,  which  men  driven 
mad  by  hunger  were  attempting  to  secure  for  their  own 
starving  families.  Later  in  the  month  riots  broke  out  in 
the  Isle  of  Ely;  guns  and  large  fowling-pieces  were  used 
against  the  authorities;  the  five  ringleaders  went  to  their 
death,  singing  the  104th  Psalm,  through  a  mourning  city. 
Certainly,  judge  and  gaoler  and  hangman  found  work  in 
plenty.  The  North  of  England  was  in  open  revolt.  In  the 
Midlands,  many  a  village  which  had  been  prosperous  and 
happy  was  now  deserted,  or  the  home  of  misery  and  squalor. 
Once — and  not  so  long  ago — the  open  cottage  doors  had 
invited  the  eyes  of  the  stranger,  as  he  passed,  to  glance  at 
the  neatness  and  cleanliness  of  the  interiors;  merry  and 
healthy  children  played  in  the  streets;  the  inhabitants, 
hale  and  happy,  saluted  those  who  went  by.  But  now 
the  scene  was  miserably  changed.  The  doors  were  closed; 
no  children  shouted  near  the  thresholds;  the  very  plants 
trained  up  in  the  windows  had  pined  and  died.  In  place 
of  the  decent,  friendly  villagers,  perhaps  one  solitary  in- 
habitant might  be  seen,  a  ghastly  living  spectre,  like  a 
dweller  among  the  tombs,  eyeing  the  traveller  with  hatred 
or  dull  apathy. 

And  all  this  time  George,  Prince  Regent  of  England, 
talked  platitudes  of  the  meritorious  endurance  of  his  peo- 
ple under  unfortunate  distresses,  and  dined  sumptuously, 
and  drank  rich  wines,  and  invented  shoe-buckles,  and 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  107 

gave  ten  thousand  guineas  for  a  punch-bowl,  and  played 
practical  jokes  at  Brighton  and  Carlton  House;  while 
brave  and  honest  toilers  roamed  the  country  in  search  of 
work;  while  good  women  lay  sick  and  starving  and  un- 
tended;  while  little  children  cried  for  bread  in  Merry 
England. 

Week  after  week  of  expectancy  and  disappointment 
passed  at  the  Running  Horse.  George's  dreams  were  fast 
taking  to  their  heels  before  these  "beadles  and  guards- 
men," whose  approach  they  heard  already  at  the  inn. 
But  one  rainy  and  gusty  afternoon  Captain  Rockett  re- 
deemed his  promise  by  bringing  two  passengers  from  the 
hoy.  The  little  mariner,  very  chirpy  at  being  able  to  do 
the  Kennetts  a  good  turn  at  last,  escorted  his  captives  to 
the  inn,  in  order  that  there  should  be  no  possibility  of 
their  escape. 

Bess  was  at  the  window  of  the  taproom,  looking  out 
disconsolately  at  the  drizzle  and  grey  sea. 

"John,  John!"  she  called,  "I  do  believe  there  are  some 
people  coming  here  at  last." 

John  ran  to  the  door,  but  Captain  Rockett  had  already 
flung  it  open  with  a  flourish,  and  stood  aside  for  the  visitors 
to  enter. 

"Famous  surgeons  from  London,"  he  whispered  behind 
his  hand,  "feyther  and  son.  Recommend  their  patients, 
wery  likely." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"/^ENTLEMEN,"  declaimed  Captain  Rockett,  slightly 
\~_JL     altering  a  passage  from  the  "Corsair," 

"  'O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless  and  our  souls  as  free, 
We've  reached  at  last  the  famous  Running  Horse, 
Where  you  can  have  good  beds — and  meals,  of  course.' 

Byron,  gentlemen,  Byron " 

"A  poet,  sir,"  said  the  elder  of  the  two  visitors,  un- 
buttoning his  drab  overcoat,  "for  whose  sentiments  in 
favour  of  liberty  I  have  always  had  a  vera  profound  re- 
spect. "  He  made  a  stiff  little  bow  to  the  Captain,  who 
had  brought  him  "o'er  the  glad  waters  " — in  the  stuffy 
little  cabin  of  the  hoy — from  London  to  Herne  Bay  in 
safety.  "James,  we  will  follow  our  good  hostess  to  our 
apartments.  How  long  do  we  propose  to  stay?  Well, 
really — eh,  James? — a  few  days,  a  few  days;  it  is  deefi- 
cult  to  predict  with  certainty.  I — I — presumably  the 
charges " 

"Oh,  we  need  not  concern  ourselves  with  that  now, 
father,"  said  the  younger  man,  irritably.  He  was  in  the 
early  twenties;  short,  thin-faced,  with  very  prominent 
features  whose  natural  sallowness  had  not  been  improved 
by  a  choppy  sea.  "Let's  see  our  rooms." 

As  they  followed  Bess  out  of  the  taproom,  Delilah 
bringing  up  the  rear  with  their  valises,  Captain  Rock- 
ett watched  them  with  a  whimsical  look  in  his  blue 
eyes.  "Wery  bad  sailor  that  young  man,  John,"  he 
remarked,  chuckling.  "Came  aboard  talking  big  about 
upsetting  the  Government;  but  he'd  precious  little 

108 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  109 

to  say  dreckly  the  sea  began  to  upset  him.  First  five 
minutes  outside  the  Thames  did  for  him. 

"  'His  features'  deepening  lines  and  warying  hue 
At  times  attracted,  yet  perplexed  the  view, 
As  if  within  that  murkiness  of  mind 
Work'd  feelings  fearful  and  yet  undefined.' 

Wery  soon  defined,  though,  when  '  gasp  by  gasp  he  faltered 
out  his  soul.'  I  had  a  long  talk  with  his  feyther;  and  it 
seems  they're  wery  distinguished  surgeons  in  Bloomsbury, 
so  they  ought  to  do  you  some  good.  I  must  get  on 
home  now,  but  I'll  come  in  again  before  my  next  journey. 
I  reckon  this  means  turn  o'  the  tide,  John. " 

Except  to  sanguine  eyes,  like  Captain  Rockett's,  the 
appearance  of  the  couple  did  not  point  to  great  distinction 
or  affluence,  but  John  knew  that  famous  surgeons  were 
frequently  eccentric.  Mr.  Watson,  senior,  spoke  with 
the  faintest  tinge  of  a  Scottish  accent,  and  was  a  trifle 
uncertain  about  his  use  of  "shall"  and  "will";  his  clothes 
were  rather  threadbare,  but  scrupulously  neat;  his  manner 
polite,  a  little  sententious;  his  habits  verging  on  old- 
maidishness.  The  son  was  of  a  different  type.  His  eyes 
had  a  restless,  half-crazy  look  in  them;  all  his  movements 
were  eager,  jerky,  irritable.  Bess,  herself,  anxious  to  do 
all  in  her  power  to  help  the  fortunes  of  the  inn,  waited 
on  them  at  their  first  meal  in  the  new  coffee-room.  But 
the  younger  Watson's  eyes  were  so  intrusive,  and  his 
appreciation  of  her  good  looks  showed  so  patently  in 
words  as  well  as  in  glances,  that  Delilah  had  to  take  her 
mistress's  place. 

Delilah  performed  this  duty  with  singular  alacrity.  The 
new  guests  were  much  to  her  liking.  They  had  cut  to 
pieces  many  hundreds  of  their  species;  they  were  intimately 
acquainted  with  all  the  diseases  to  which  the  human  frame 
is  liable;  a  little  shagreen  case  among  their  luggage  held 


110  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

barbarous-looking  instruments  which  must  have  assisted 
in  countless  operations;  they  had  books  filled  with  grue- 
some diagrams  of  dissected  men  and  women.  She  listened, 
open-mouthed,  while  the  elder  man  (who  was  the  chief 
talker)  prosed  about  his  cases,  with  finger-tips  together 
and  much  admixture  of  dog-Latin.  His  son  was  busier, 
as  a  rule,  with  knife  and  fork  and  tankard;  now  and  then 
he  jerked  in  a  few  words,  contemptuous  of  his  father's 
old-fashioned  methods  of  treatment.  Delilah  Gummer's 
thoughts  hovered  between  her  body  and  her  soul;  with 
the  conviction  of  sin  she  combined  now  the  conviction 
that  she  suffered  from  at  least  three  terrible  and  hitherto 
unheard-of  maladies.  Her  frame  of  mind  most  nearly 
corresponded  to  that  of  the  ancient  monks  when  they 
were  bled  in  company,  in  the  abbey  phlebotomeria,  to 
the  solemn  music  of  the  Psalms. 

The  two  guests  spent  much  of  their  spare  time,  however, 
in  the  taproom,  and  here  politics  engaged  their  attention 
rather  than  surgery  or  medicine.  On  this  subject  the  son 
proved  talkative  enough.  Reading  between  the  excited 
periods  of  the  younger  Watson  and  the  father's  senten- 
tious remedies  for  the  condition  of  England  and  the  world, 
it  was  easy  to  see  that  their  modest  equipment,  the  care- 
fully brushed  and  darned  garments,  resulted  rather  from 
lack  of  means  than  choice.  Default  of  patients  at  Blooms- 
bury  had  turned  their  attention  to  the  ailments  of  a  society 
diseased,  a  world  out  of  joint. 

The  remedies  propounded  by  Spence,  and  preached,  after 
his  death  in  1814,  by  Evans,  were  those  they  favoured. 
Watson  senior  proposed  the  dissemination  of  Spencean  ideas 
by  meetings,  by  discussions,  by  clubs  such  as  had  already 
been  formed.  The  son  advocated  more  drastic  methods, 
and,  throwing  off  his  cloak  of  gloomy  reticence  in  the  com- 
pany of  the  taproom,  talked  wildly  and  mysteriously  of 
coming  judgment  on  the  men  who  misgoverned  England. 


RUNNING    HORSE   INN  111 

"I  think  I  shall  take  some  of — er — Dr.  Lettsom's  tenth 
stage  of  intemperance — punch,  please,  punch,"  the  elder 
man  would  say,  with  his  polite,  stiff  little  bow  to  John 
or  Delilah  at  the  bar.  "My  dear  James,  we  must  not  be 
violent;  let  us  trust  to  reason  to — er — leaven  the  lump. 
Already  these  principles  are  spreading.  Thank  you,  thank 
you.  We  know  that  England  is — h'm — cachectic;  in  a 
vera  cachectic  condition.  The  price  of  wheat  now " 

"Gone  up  to  nigh  eighty  shillings  a  quarter  at  Canter- 
bury now,"  said  Stebbings,  nodding  his  head. 

"Exactly,  sir.  The  enormous  taxation,  the  great  es- 
tates of  our  nobility — when  in  London,  as  I  can  testify, 
people  are  packed  like  herrings  in  squalid  attics — the  dis- 
graceful— I  say  disgraceful  advisedly — the  disgraceful 
luxury  and  waste  in  high  circles — all  these  Spence  saw, 
and  proposed  to  remedy.  He  went  to  the  root  of  the 
matter;  we  should  all  go  to  the  root  of  the  matter."  Dr. 
Watson  took  a  sip  from  his  glass.  "I  remember,  gen- 
tlemen, when  Spence  was  buried,  a  pair  of  scales  was 
placed  on  his  coffin  to  show  the  justice  of  his  views.  Now, 
the  first  and  most  important  matter  is  to  secure  proper 
representation  for  the  people;  we  must  do  away  with  a 
Parliament  based  on — er — nepotism  and  corruption.  And 
to  secure  this,  our  first  step " 

"Our  first  step,"  interrupted  the  son,  fiercely,  "is  to 
stamp  out  the  present  system  by  striking  at  the  head. 
France  did  it;  are  we  to  be  behind  France?  We  must  do 
what  our  fathers  did  under  the  Stuarts;  cut  out  the  canker 
with  the  knife " 

"My  dear  James,"  protested  his  father,  pressing  to- 
gether the  tips  of  his  fingers  and  leaning  forward,  "let 
us  try  milder  measures  first;  knife  or  escharotic  only  in 
the  last  resort.  Spence  proposed,  as  the  first  step,  to  abolish 
the  iniquitous  private  ownership  of  land.  We  must,  he 
says,  form  a  corporation  of  the  inhabitants  of  each  parish, 


112  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

in  which  all  the  parish  land  shall  be  vested;  the  parish 
officers  will  collect  the  rents,  deduct  state  and  local  ex- 
penses, and  divide  the  lave  among  the  parishioners.  And 
then " 

"A  wery  wise  system,  a  do  think,"  said  old  Pinion, 
from  his  corner.  "And  how  much  should  I  get  from  them 
there  politics,  maister?  I'd  vote  for  that,  to  be  sure. 
What  would  it  be,  now,  in  Eddington?  I  often  do  think, 
now  I've  been  working  these  sixty-dree  year,  man  and 
boy — seventy-fower  a  be  now — rook-starvin'  first,  a 
was " 

"But  how  on  earth  will  you  make  these  land-grabbers 
give  up  their  lands,  sir?"  interrupted  the  younger  Watson, 
excitedly.  "How  will  you  induce  them  to  do  that?" 

"Well,  we  must  educate — educate.  We  cannot  expect 
these  changes  all  at  once.  But  an  Act  of  Parliament, 
when  Parliament  is  filled  with  men  imbued  with  Spencean 

doctrines "  He  waved  his  hands  vaguely,  and  went 

on  as  if  the  difficulty  had  been  brushed  aside.  "When 
we  have  our  parish  corporations,  we  will  have  no  tolls  or 
taxes  but  the  rent  that  each  man  pays;  all  duties  on 
foreign  goods  shall  be  abolished;  every  man  in  the  parish 
will  serve  on  the  militia  to  defend  his  country;  every  man 
who  serves  and  pays  his  rent  will  be  entitled  to  a  vote. 
Each  parish  will  elect  its  representative  every  year  for  the 
national  assembly " 

"But  you're  arguing  in  a  circle,  you're  arguing  in  a 
circle!"  shouted  his  son.  "Parliament  to  form  the  land 
communities!  The  land  communities " 

"Oh,  I  admit  deeficulties,  James,  I  admit  deeficulties. 
But  this  snedding  of  heads " 

"It  must  come  to  that,  though!"  cried  James.  "Will 
education  make  the  Regent  give  up  the  wealth  he  squan- 
ders when  his  people  are  starving?  They  are  starving — 
thousands  of  them,  millions  of  them.  There  are  men  and 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  113 

women  and  children  dying  for  want  of  what  he'll  spend 
on  a  waistcoat  or  a  cravat.  And  the  people  only  want  a 
leader.  They  have  stood  it  long  enough;  if  only  the  man 
came  forward,  there  would  be  revolution  to-morrow.  You 
can't  alter  things  now  without  force.  We  must  use  the 
knife,  we  must " 

"Seems  to  me,"  said  Captain  Rockett,  who  had  just 
come  in,  and  had  been  listening  quietly  to  an  oration  that 
had  risen  almost  to  a  scream  of  anger,  "seems  to  me  that 
we're  talking  about  drastic  measures  when  our  patient's 
nearly  on  the  mend.  No  good  cutting  off  the  head  when 
the  body's  getting  well  again.  You  must  have  a  head; 
they  Frenchies,  they  cut  off  theirs,  but  they  soon  had 
another  worse  than  the  first." 

"They  had  a  man,  instead  of  a  bran-stuffed  puppet, 
sir!"  cried  young  Watson,  excitedly.  " Buonaparte  was  a 
man,  and  he  knew  what  France  wanted,  if  he  couldn't 
carry  out  all  his  schemes.  Why  did  our  people  cheer  him 
when  he  was  aboard  the  Better ophon  off  Portsmouth? 
Why  did  Hunt,  who  has  the  interests  of  the  people  at 
heart  if  any  Parliament  man  has  nowadays — why  did  he 
put  candles  in  his  windows  when  Buonaparte  escaped  from 
Elba?" 

"And  got  his  windows  smashed  for  it — served  the  traitor 
right, "  growled  two  or  three  men,  who,  in  that  room,  had 
hurra'd  over  the  news  of  many  a  British  victory,  which 
the  former  host  had  read  out  (standing  on  a  table)  from 
the  Extraordinary  Gazettes. 

Watson  ignored  the  interruption.  "George  R.,"  he  went 
on  scornfully,  "those  letters  spell  all  the  troubles  of  Eng- 
land. It's  the  whole  false,  iniquitous  system  embodied  in 
one  .figure  at  its  head.  Buonaparte  did  let  merit  have  its 
way:  the  only  proper  system  for  the  government  of  a  free 
people.  Did  he  care  for  rank,  for  birth,  for  the  fact  that 
a  man's  father  was  a  lord  or  had  a  great  estate?  He  wanted 
8 


114  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

talents,  abilities,  resource,  brains,  and  saw  that  he  got 
them.  In  England " 

"I  reckon  it  won't  help  you  to  navigate  that  old  wessel 
through  dirty  weather  to  cut  the  figure-head  off,  though," 
said  Captain  Rockett.  "First  thing  is  for  each  to  do  his 
dooty  at  the  pumps  and  yards.  Righteousness  exalteth 
a  nation,  and  sin  is  a  reproach  to  any  people.  Let's  re- 
member that.  If  more  of  us  did,  there'd  be  less  wicked- 
ness perhaps  in  high  quarters.  'Lilah,  bring  me  a  church- 
warden, if  it  ain't  against  your  scruples."  He  filled  the 
pipe  slowly.  Watson  had  half-turned  his  back.  "Favour- 
ite pipes  of  mine,  sir;  and  I'll  tell  you  for  why.  When  I 
commanded  a  wessel  called  the  Neptune  in  the  Baltic, 
I  once  lost  my  bearings,  and  was  looking  round  through 
my  glass,  when  I  see  the  bowl  of  one  of  these  here  pipes 
sticking  through  the  water.  And  what  do  you  think  we 
found?  Under  the  pipe  there  was  a  shipwrecked  sailor, 
sitting  on  a  submerged  rock,  a-drawing  in  air  through  the 
pipe,  and  waiting  for  the  tide  to  go  down.  We'd  have 
been  on  the  rock  in  another  brace  o'  shakes,  so  the  church- 
warden saved  his  life,  and  our  lives,  and  a  good  wessel— 
which  there  wasn't  never  a  finer  than  the  old  Neptune,  to 
my  thinking.  Of  course,  the  sea  was  wery  smooth,  or  he 
wouldn't  have  been  able  to  do  it." 

"Indeed,  you  surprise  me,  sir "  began  old  Watson, 

before  a  chuckle  from  the  rest  could  inform  him  that 
Captain  Rockett's  yarns  might  be  taken  as  only  relatively 
true. 

"And  it  seems  to  me,  now,"  went  on  the  little  sailor, 
"that  Old  England's  sound  enough  under  us,  if  we  only 
sit  tight,  and  wait  for  the  tide  to  go  down.  It  don't  do  to 
wriggle  about  or  try  to  shove  one  another  off  the  rock; 
we've  had  a  pretty  high  tide  of  bad  fortune,  but  I  reckon 
it's  going  down  fast,  and  before  wery  long  we'll  all  have 
our  heads  above  water." 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  115 

"Then  you  propose,  sir,"  said  the  younger  Watson, 
excitedly,  "you  propose  to  retain  things  as  they  are? 
To  keep  your  figure-head,  and  rob  the  poor  to  gild  and 
paint  it?  To  keep  this  gang  of  thieves  and — and  bribers 
in  office?  Let  us  be  plain,  sir.  You  prefer  a  system  which 
chooses  the  high  officers  for  its  army  at  the  whim  of  a 
Duke's  mistress — oh,  'tis  common  talk,  sir — to  one  like 
Buonaparte's,  where  every  soldier  might  find  the  marshal's 
baton  in  his  knapsack?" 

"  I  don't  say  that, "  answered  Captain  Rockett.  "There's 
a  rare  daffy  of  things  want  altering,  I  know.  But  still " 

"Mr.  Watson's  right  about  the  army!"  said  George, 
suddenly.  He  had  been  silent  hitherto;  but  his  eyes  were 
bright,  and  his  fists  had  been  clenching  and  unclenching 
with  growing  excitement.  His  interruption  was  so  fierce 
and  unexpected  that  all  eyes  turned  towards  him.  "  Boney 
did  look  after  his  men,  and  give  them  a  chance,  whatever 
his  faults  were.  He  made  his  kings  and  dukes  the  way  we 
ought  to  make  them — out  of  men,  not  clothes.  They  don't 
give  a  snap  of  the  fingers  for  anything  but  birth  or  money 
in  our  army. " 

"I  reckon  you  ought  to  know  something  about  that, 
now,  Must'  George,"  said  Pinion,  insinuatingly,  fumbling 
with  his  empty  tankard,  "serving  all  them  years  in  our 
army,  and  getting  nothing  for  your  pains  and  wounds." 

Watson  fixed  his  crazy  eyes  on  George  with  sudden 
interest. 

"Have  you  served?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  in  the  Peninsula."  He  entered  into  a  long 
grumble  about  his  grievances,  to  which  young  Watson 
listened  readily  enough;  the  others,  having  already  heard 
him  on  this  topic  to  the  point  of  boredom,  turned  their 
attention  to  other  subjects. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  Watsons'  stay  at  the  Run- 
ning Horse,  George  and  the  young  surgeon  were  much  in 


116  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

company.  Watson  plied  him  with  questions  about  the 
various  regiments,  inquiring  particularly  as  to  the  state 
of  feeling  in  the  army — whether  disaffection  had  spread 
to  any  extent,  and  how  far  the  influence  of  Spence,  Cobbett, 
and  the  Hampden  Clubs  which  were  forming  throughout 
the  country  had  permeated  the  ranks.  George  was  flat- 
tered by  so  much  notice  from  a  man  above  him  in  the 
social  scale,  and  gave  such  information  as  he  had — not 
very  much,  since  he  had  lost  touch  with  the  army  at  Tou- 
louse. He  told  innumerable  stories  of  the  war,  of  favorit- 
ism and  inefficiency,  and  brought  out  the  Spanish  pistol 
from  the  drawer  in  which  John  kept  it.  Watson's  curios- 
ity about  the  army  seemed  inexhaustible. 

When  the  two  guests  left,  George  went  with  them  to 
the  hoy.  Two  or  three  sailors  were  stowing  away  the 
cargo;  they  had  half  an  hour  or  so  to  wait  before  sailing, 
and  George  accompanied  them  on  board,  and  had  a  drink 
at  their  invitation  in  the  little  cabin  where  the  passengers 
took  their  meals  or  whiled  away  the  tediousness  of  the 
voyage  with  packs  of  greasy  cards. 

"You  should  be  coming  with  us,  Kennett, "  said  young 
Watson.  He  glanced  round;  the  man  who  had  served 
them  with  their  drink — "cook,  mariner,  attendant,  cham- 
berlain "  combined — had  just  been  called  on  deck  by 
Captain  Rockett;  Watson  waited  until  his  striped  trousers 
had  vanished  through  the  hatchway.  "You  should  be 
coming  with  us,"  he  went  on,  dropping  his  voice.  "Great 
schemes  are  hatching;  there'll  be  chances  for  an  able  and 
ambitious  man  like  you,  who  knows  a  little  of  fighting. 
Come  to  London." 

"  My  dear  James, "  whispered  the  elder  Watson,  nervously, 
"be  cautious,  be  discreet.  My  son  allows  himself  to  be 
carried  away  by  his  ideas,  Mr.  Kennett,"  he  said,  aloud. 
"But  if  ever  you  come  to  London,  we  shall  be  obleeged 
by  your  calling  on  us,  I'm  vera  sure.  Perhaps  Mr.  Kennett 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  ift 

might  be  interested  in  one  of  our  meetings  at  the  Cock, 
eh,  James?  A  little  gathering  of — h'm — peaceful  agita- 
tors, Mr.  Kennett " 

"Peaceful  agitators!"  interrupted  his  son.  "We'll  find 
better  work  for  you  than  peaceful  agitation,  Kennett,  I 
promise  you!  In  a  few  months,  before  the  year's  out — 
the  country's  almost  ripe  already " 

"Man,  ye'll  have  us  all  gaoled,  with  that  tongue  of 
yours!"  cried  Dr.  Watson,  in  agitation.  "I — I — if  it  were 
any  one  with  less  good  sense  than  you,  Mr.  Kennett " 

"Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid  of  me,  Dr.  Watson.  What- 
ever your  plans  may  be,  I've  not  so  much  love  for  the 
Government  that  I  wouldn't  help  you,  if  my  hands  weren't 
full.  I  reckon  things  are  mending,  though,  and  we'll  be 
too  busy  to  worry  our  heads  over  politics  at  the  Running 
Horse. " 

"Things  mending?  They're  growing  worse  every  day, 
I  tell  you.  Stick  to  your  inn;  but  don't  blame  me  if  you 
find  you've  missed " 

Captain  Rockett's  genial  shout  of  warning  hurried 
George  to  the  gangway. 

"I'll  remember,"  he  said.  "If  all  else  fails,  I'll  try 
London.  Good-bye,  Dr.  Watson,  good-bye." 

He  watched  the  hoy  until  the  faces  on  her  deck  grew 
indistinct.  Then,  with  slow  steps,  he  made  his  way  back 
to  the  inn.  What  was  the  meaning  of  the  vague  promises 
held  out  to  him?  Something  great,  he  knew;  something 
beside  which  his  ambitions  at  Herne  Bay — even  if  achieved 
—would  shrink  into  paltriness  and  insignificance.  "Stick 
to  your  inn."  The  stinging  contempt  in  Watson's  tone 
and  words  told  of  an  alternative,  high  as  his  boyish 
dreams — and  rejected. 

Bess  was  in  the  parlour  when  he  returned.  "  Oh,  George, 
it's  nice  to  be  alone  again, "  she  said. 

"Didn't  you  like  them?" 


118  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"Well,  the  father  was  very  nice,  but  the  son — no,  I 
can't  say  I  did,  very  much,  George.  He  shouted  so  much 
about  every  one  being  wrong,  and  about  putting  every 
one  to  rights;  but  it  seemed  to  me  he  hadn't  started  with 
himself. " 

During  the  next  few  weeks  George's  thoughts  were 
oftener  in  London  than  in  Herne  Bay.  He  studied  the 
news-sheets  and  Cobbett's  Register,  drank  in  eagerly  all 
the  taproom  gossip  about  hard  times,  low  wages,  rioting 
and  rick-burning,  and  other  manifestations  of  public  dis- 
content, and  at  night  dreamed  himself  into  Westminster 
and  even  Carlton  House.  Unhappily,  he  had  time  to 
spare  for  these  musings  and  imaginings.  People  could 
not  afford  to  come  to  the  sea;  even  old  customers  had  to 
hoard  their  scanty  pence  against  the  winter,  and  came 
less  frequently.  If  Bess  sang  more  cheerily  at  her  work 
about  the  house,  and  talked  more  hopefully  than  ever, 
it  was  only  when  John  or  George  was  in  hearing;  alone, 
she  fell  silent  and  thoughtful. 

A  dozen  times,  during  that  long  summer,  George  deter- 
mined to  take  such  money  as  could  still  be  spared  and 
go  to  London  in  search  of  fortune.  Once  or  twice  the 
announcement  of  his  decision  was  on  his  tongue.  But  a 
glance  from  Bess,  a  touch  in  passing,  a  familiar  gesture 
or  tone  of  the  voice,  shattered  his  dreams  and  held  him 
to  their  fortunes  as  by  a  spell.  Bitter-sweet  all  these 
were,  the  sparkle  of  her  eyes  like  the  gleam  of  water  denied 
to  Tantalus,  parched  with  thirst.  John  had  grown  cau- 
tious and  close-fisted  now  with  the  remnant  of  their  little 
fortune;  he  irritated  his  brother  by  declining  to  trust  the 
future  and  risk  the  little  he  had  left. 

"No,  we'll  keep  the  rest  in  the  Bank,  George;  it's  safer 
there,  I  reckon.  There  won't  be  too  much  left,  when  the 
mortgage  money's  paid,  to  carry  us  through  into  next 
summer. " 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  119 

A  few  days  later  Homersham,  the  miller,  ran  in,  with 
his  face  almost  as  white  as  the  flour  that  smeared  his 
hands.  John  was  alone  in  the  taproom,  drying  a  tankard, 
at  the  moment. 

"My  God,  Kennett!"  cried  Homersham,  "have  you 
heard  the  news?  The  Bank's  broke — stopped  payment 
this  morning — Tom  Butcher's  just  come  from  Canter- 
bury! I've  all  my  savings  there;  and  they  say  we  shan't 
get  a  penny-piece!" 

John  still  wiped  the  tankard,  mechanically,  like  a  man 
working  in  sleep.  He  heard  the  footsteps  of  George  and 
Bess  near  the  door.  He  heard  the  crunch  of  dust  and 
shingle  under  his  brother's  heavy  tread  as  he  went  through 
the  yard  to  the  stable.  Bess  came  in.  The  miller  gulped, 
opened  his  mouth,  and,  shutting  it  again,  hurried  out 
to  spread  the  news. 

John  set  down  the  tankard  quite  softly,  and  went  after 
her  into  the  little  parlour.  He  closed  the  door. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BESS  was  knitting  socks  for  the  coming  winter;  she  had 
already  taken  up  her  work,  and  her  eyes  were  bent 
over  it.  John  sank  down,  dazed  with  his  misfortune,  in 
the  old  armchair  and  watched  her. 

"Bess,"  he  said,  at  last,  slowly. 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"I — I — oh,  lass,  we've  been  happy  together,  haven't 
we?  We  have  been  happy?  And  yet  I've  done  you  a 
great  wrong;  I  meant  well,  God  knows  I  did — 'twas  only 
to  try  and  make  a  fitter  home  for  you  that  I  listened  to 
what  George  said.  I  can't  say  I'm  sorry  I  asked  you  to 
marry  me,  lass — I  can't  say  that;  but  now 

She  put  down  her  work  with  a  quick  gesture,  and  turned 
sharply,  colouring,  and  her  eyes  growing  brighter. 

"  'But  now'  what,  John?"  she  asked,  with  a  little 
shade  of  irritation  in  her  voice.  Once  or  twice  lately  his 
thoughts  had  travelled  on  gloomy  roads  and  not  been 
silent.  Her  own  courage  was  so  high  that  now  she  adopted 
a  tone  which  she  thought  might  brace  him  to  fresh  energy 
and  hope.  If  she  could  be  cheerful,  surely  he  might  make 
some  effort  to  throw  off  his  despondency. 

"I've  been  a  fool,  Bess;  I  see  it  now " 

"Oh,  goodness  me,  John,  don't  talk  like  that.  What 
is  the  good  of  grumbling  and  being  sorry?  You  almost 
said  you  were  sorry  you  married  me;  yes,  you  did.  Wishing 
won't  turn  the  new  buildings  back  again  into  money,  and 
if  it  could,  we'd  be  wanting  to  have  the  inn  just  like  it  is 
now,  directly  the  bad  times  are  over.  We're  having  our 
share  of  misfortune  like  other  people,  and  we've  got  to 
be  brave  and  wait  like  other  people.  Oh,  really,  John, 
if  you  talk  like  this,  and  begin  to  wish  you  hadn't  married 

120 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  121 

me,  you'll  make  me  wish  the  same  thing.  It'll  be  time 
enough  to  think  about  being  sorry  when  we're  really 
ruined. " 

"If  we  were,  Bess — if — oh,  how  can  I  ask?"  He  got  up, 
and  paced  the  room  in  agitation.  "Bess  to  lack  bread — 
bread  and  a  roof!"  he  muttered.  "Oh,"  he  cried,  aloud, 
"if  we  were  ruined,  lass — turned  adrift  like  so  many 
thousands " 

He  broke  off.  Bess  did  not  answer  for  a  minute. 
Through  the  open  window  came  the  sound  of  footsteps  and 
the  trample  of  hoofs  as  George  led  Blossom  from  her  stable 
into  the  yard;  and  then  the  noise  of  curry-comb  at  work. 

"Well,  if  we  were  ruined — really  and  truly  ruined," 
said  Bess,  at  last,  "if  we  hadn't  a  good  roof  over  our  heads, 
and  plenty  to  eat,  and  money  put  by — why,  then,  of  course, 
I  should  be  sorry  I'd  married  you.  You  know  I  married 
you  for  what  you  were  going  to  give  me.  You  know  love 
flies  out  of  the  window  when  poverty  comes  in.  I  don't 
know  what  I'd  do,  I'm  sure.  Run  away  with  some  man 
who'd  sense  enough  to  keep  his  wife  from  starving,  per- 
haps— some  man  who'd  courage  enough  not  to  give  up 
directly  things  went  against  him. "  She  knitted  vigorously, 
stabbing  the  needles  viciously  into  the  wool;  her  lips  were 
closed  tightly. 

"I — I "  John  stammered;  how  was  he  going  to 

break  this  news  ?  He  turned  to  the  window,  to  gain  control, 
and  shut  it  noisily,  the  sounds  outside  irritating  him. 
George  had  led  him  into  this;  for  the  first  time  he  wished 
vaguely  that  the  past  had  not  given  back  its  dead. 

"Bess,  my  girl,"  he  said,  sadly,  "you  may  bespeaking 
true,  or  you  may  be  speaking  jest;  I  know  it's  jest  about 
the  other  man;  is  it  true  love  wouldn't  last  out  ruin? 
Because — we  are  ruined,  we  are,  lass.  The  Bank's 

failed,  and  now — and  now "  His  face  flushed  scarlet, 

suddenly;  he  sank  again  into  the  chair,  burying  his  face 


122  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

in  his  hands,  his  breast  heaving  with  sobs  that  he  strug- 
gled to  control. 

"John!  John!  dear  old  John!"  Bess  was  at  his  side  in  a 
second,  kissing  him,  passing  her  hand  over  his  bent  head, 
nestling  into  her  old  shelter  against  his  heart.  "Oh,  my 
dear,  as  if  anything — poverty — death  even — could  come 
between  love  like  ours!  They  can't  take  that  away.  I 
thought — oh,  I  didn't  know!  Of  course,  I  didn't  mean  what 
I  said.  Don't,  John,  don't.  We're  young  still,  you  and  I; 
we'll  get  the  better  of  this  old  world  yet." 

She  stood  up,  throwing  back  her  head.  Her  eyes  were 
moist,  but  they  flashed  through  the  held-back  tears;  she 
stood  defiant  against  the  shafts  of  evil  fortune. 

"  We  won't  be  beaten,"  she  cried.  John  looked  up  slowly; 
hope  stirred  again.  Oh,  loyal  little  heart!  Oh,  courage 
bright  and  true  as  steel!  And  yet 

"Come,"  she  said,  "we  must  be  brave  now,  you  and  I, 
and  set  our  wits  to  work.  We're  not  going  to  throw  down 
our  arms  because  we've  lost  one  battle.  Now,  let's  see  just 
how  we  stand — at  once,  now — that's  the  first  thing.  See, 
we'll  set  it  down  on  paper — what  we  owe,  what  we  have." 
She  dragged  his  chair  to  the  table  as  he  stood  up;  brought 
pens  and  ink  and  paper  and  sandbox;  took  him  by  the 
shoulders,  and  thrust  him  down  into  the  chair. 

John  nibbled  the  end  of  the  quill,  set  his  pen-point  aim- 
lessly to  paper;  scored  a  line  which  wandered  round  and 
round  into  the  rude  semblance  of  a  grotesque  face.  "I — I 
don't  know  what  to  write,"  he  said,  dismally. 

"Never  mind;  I'll  tell  you.  This  side  for  what  we  owe. 
Interest  on  mortgage — brewers — Graydon's  bill." 

He  wrote  slowly  to  her  dictation,  in  his  round,  school- 
boy hand,  his  head  slightly  on  one  side,  the  tip  of  his 
tongue  just  between  his  lips.  Bess  urged  him  on;  better 
anything  that  looked  like  an  attempt  to  grapple  with  their 
difficulties,  rather  than  crushed  submission  to  disaster. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  123 

He  set  down,  on  the  other  side,  the  amount  in  the  till 
and  the  money  from  his  pocket  and  hers.  "We'll  ask 
George — no,  we  won't,"  she  said.  "Why,  notes,  John?" 

"Only  two  pound  notes.    They're  not  worth " 

"Put  down  just  what  they  are  worth.  Now,  how  much 
have  we  to  go  on  with?  And  we  want " 

"Twenty  pounds  would  tide  us  over." 

She  put  her  chin  in  her  hands,  and  thought. 

"  You'll  have  to  see  if  the  people  at  Canterbury  will  take 
back  some  of  the  furniture,  John.  Perhaps  Will  can  sell 
it,  if  they  won't.  And  ask  the  lawyers  if  they  can't  give  us 
a  little  longer  time  to  pay  the  mortgage  money  in." 

"I'll  go  over  now,"  said  John,  in  a  glow  of  new  enthusi- 
asm kindled  by  her  own. 

"Oh,  wait  till  after  dinner;  there's  some  cold  goose  left, 
and  I  know  you  like  that,  you  cannibal!  Then  you  can 
stay  the  night  at  Sturry  with  Nance  and  Will,  and  talk 
things  over  with  him  after  supper." 

But  when  John  had  ridden  off,  Bess's  spirits  sank,  and 
she  had  a  quiet  little  cry  in  her  bedroom.  George  had  been 
very  silent  at  their  meal;  he  knew  of  the  failure,  and  was 
told  the  reason  of  John's  going.  Directly  after  dinner  he 
went  out  on  to  the  downs  to  smoke  a  pipe.  Delilah  was 
reading  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs  in  the  taproom,  and  waiting 
for  the  customers  who  so  rarely  came. 

Bess  began  to  rummage  in  her  drawer  among  her  few 
treasures,  hoping  to  find  something  on  which  money  might 
be  raised.  She  did  not  want  to  part  with  the  presents  John 
had  given  her;  but  there  were  some  birthday  presents, 
trinkets  and  books,  given  her  by  her  father,  and  she  turned 
these  over,  a  little  dolefully.  Huntingdon  had  never  been 
lavish  with  his  gifts,  but  he  had  generally  remembered  her 
birthday,  remarking  at  the  same  time,  half  in  jest,  half  in 
earnest,  on  the  amount  she  cost  him.  These  presents 
marked  the  milestones  of  her  earlier  life.  A  brooch,  given 


124  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

by  her  grandfather  to  his  bride,  before  Welsh  mains  and 
royals,  dice  and  the  devil's  books  had  broken  his  fortunes, 
was  her  chief  asset.  Perhaps  Nash  had  seen  it  in  the  Bath 
pump-room;  the  facets  of  its  stones  had  echoed  candle- 
light that  shone  on  the  flushed  faces  of  gamesters,  on  card- 
strewn  floors,  on  ruby  wine  circling  between  hands  that 
grew  less  and  less  steady  with  each  round;  it  had  glittered 
once  in  the  press  of  dainty  women  and  gallant  men:  all 
gone  out  now — silks  and  satins  and  dimpled  faces  and 
wine-flushed  faces — like  the  lights  that  shone  upon  them, 
like  the  music  danced  to,  like  dreams  in  the  morning,  like 
the  colours  of  day  when  night  closes.  And  here  was  Bess, 
the  grandchild  of  its  first  wearer,  wanting  these  few  pounds 
to  save  her  home. 

But  one  or  two  of  her  treasures — a  little  book,  particu- 
larly, given  her  when  she  first  began  to  read — brought  into 
her  mind  kindly  memories  of  her  father.  It  was  a  child's 
colour-book,  crudely  painted  with  pictures  of  country  life, 
and  explained  by  doggerel  verse,  about  Mrs.  Cow,  and  Mrs. 
Duck,  and  Mr.  Dog,  and  the  rest  of  the  farm  family.  How 
she  had  loved  that  red  cow,  with  the  green  grass  mingling 
with  its  tufted  tail,  and  its  blue  eye  wandering,  by  some 
printer's  freak,  on  the  verge  of  its  owner's  framework! 
Bess  remembered  her  father,  on  one  occasion,  grunting  like 
the  pig  at  her  request — a  grunt  so  natural,  so  successful, 
that  she  earned  rebuffs  afterwards  for  pestering  him  for 
a  repetition  when  he  was  in  a  less  genial  mood.  "It  sounds 
almost  human,  doesn't  it,  mamma?"  she  had  remarked,  in 
half-shuddering  appreciation. 

In  Roger  Huntingdon's  life,  as  in  that  of  every  man, 
there  were  little  acts  of  kindness,  and  these  shone  out  the 
more  brightly  now  because  of  the  dark  background.  She 
recalled  long  summer  evenings,  when  she  had  grown  tired, 
and  had  been  carried  shoulder-high  through  green  lanes  or 
corn-fields;  now  and  then  he  had  given  her  sixpence  to  buy 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  125 

toys  or  sweets;  casual  words  of  praise  and  kindness,  an 
unexpected  kiss  or  stroking  of  the  dark,  towsled  hair — these 
she  suddenly  remembered.  Nothing  in  life  is  quite  for- 
gotten; the  brain  stores  up  its  most  trivial  impressions, 
hiding  them  for  years — perhaps  for  half  a  lifetime,  and 
then,  quite  suddenly,  flashes  a  memory  which  we  recognise 
with  wonder;  sometimes  almost  with  terror,  at  the  appall- 
ing retentiveness,  the  possibly  awful  significance,  of  this 
silent  and  pitiless  record.  But,  mercifully,  the  happy 
scenes  of  life  stand  out  most  clearly. 

The  memories  speaking  to  Bess  now  were  like  Sunday 
bells,  ringing  over  a  dark  and  troubled  sea  from  peaceful 
shores. 

She  straightened  herself,  tossing  back  her  hair. 

"I'll  go  to  father!"  she  said,  aloud. 

Impetuous  as  ever,  she  decided  to  act  at  once  on  the 
sudden  inspiration.  Her  father  was  rich;  he  ought  to  help 
her.  Bad  times  to  others  meant  to  the  farmer  better  prices, 
and  lower  wages  for  his  men.  If  she  failed,  there  was  no 
need  for  John  to  know.  He  had  threatened  them  in  anger; 
but  that  was  long  ago.  Perhaps  he  was  anxious  now  to  be 
friends — waiting  only  for  the  first  advance  from  them. 

She  thought  at  first  of  going  as  she  was.  Perhaps  a 
certain  pride,  perhaps  a  subconscious  sense  of  sex  that 
plays  its  part,  unanalysed,  even  in  the  relations  between 
parent  and  child,  made  her  decide  otherwise.  She  dragged 
open  press  and  drawer.  Out  came  her  best  summer  frock 
— jaconet  muslin,  cut  to  show  the  dimpled  throat  and 
first  firm  rising  of  the  breast;  down  from  its  peg  came  the 
Sunday  hat,  of  chipped  straw,  with  pink  strings  and  nodding 
rosebuds;  she  kicked  off  her  rough  shoes,  and  from  a 
corner  took  a  daintier  pair,  with  little  straps  to  fasten 
round  the  instep.  For  a  second  she  sat  on  the  edge  of  her 
bed,  in  hesitation.  Then  she  dragged  off  the  homely 
woollen  stockings  of  everyday;  stood  up,  barefooted,  and 


126  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

shook  off  her  working  dress.  In  shift  and  petticoat,  she 
washed  until  her  face  glowed  with  the  soft,  dark  rain-water 
and  all  signs  of  crying  had  been  effaced. 

When  s>"'  had  dressed,  and  put  the  brooch  in  its  place, 
and  tied  the  pink  ribbons  of  the  hat  under  her  dimpled 
chin,  Bess  eyed  herself  pensively  for  a  few  seconds  in  the 
little  mirror.  At  least  she  would  not  look  like  a  prodigal 
returning  home.  It  was  only  right  that  her  father  should 
help  them.  The  clothes  were  not  costly,  but  they  were 
pretty,  and  the  knowledge  that  she  was  becomingly  dressed 
gave  her  more  confidence  in  herself,  and  more  hope  of  a 
successful  issue. 

She  felt  a  little  self-conscious,  and  a  little  guilty,  at 
making  this  attempt  without  John's  knowledge,  as  she 
went  downstairs,  closed  the  inn  door  behind  her,  and  hur- 
ried along  the  road  to  Eddington.  She  had  seen  her  father 
three  or  four  times  since  the  night  after  her  wedding,  but 
only  in  the  distance;  they  had  not  spoken.  Once,  when 
Huntingdon  was  away,  her  mother  had  come  to  the  inn, 
furtively — an  act  of  tremendous  courage  for  a  woman  so 
timid  and  so  broken  under  her  husband's  masterful  rule. 
Mrs.  Huntingdon  had  been  loving  and  yet  tearfully  re- 
proachful in  a  breath;  afraid  to  sit  down,  afraid  to  eat  or 
drink,  frightened  all  the  time  lest  some  eavesdropper 
should  see  and  overhear,  and  carry  the  matter  of  her  visit. 
It  had  been  a  difficult  interview  for  all  of  them,  and  had 
never  been  repeated. 

Bess  paused  a  minute  at  the  white  gate,  that  place  of 
memories.  There  was  still  time  to  turn  back.  Her  mind 
wavered,  and  before  she  had  time  to  change  it,  she  went 
resolutely  along  the  rutted  lane,  her  heart  beating  fast, 
and  her  brain  trying  desperately  to  set  some  words  in  order. 

A  retriever,  near  of  kin  to  the  pup  which  she  had  given 
George  on  the  day  of  his  enlistment,  barked  savagely  and 
strained  at  its  chain  as  she  drew  near  the  door;  but  he 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  127 

recognised  her  voice,  and  welcomed  her  with  delight.  She 
patted  his  curly  head,  and  then  knocked  loudly. 

A  maid  opened  the  door. 

"Miss  Bess!"  The  red-cheeked  country  girl  forgot  the 
new  name  in  her  astonishment,  and  drew  back,  round-eyed 
and  open-mouthed. 

" Is  Mr. — is  father  in? "  Bess  stepped  across  the  drashel. 
Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  wiped  the  dust  from 
her  shoes  on  a  mat  bearing  "Salve"  in  great  black  letters, 
and  entered  the  dining-room  unannounced. 

Mrs.  Huntingdon  was  lying  with  a  book  on  a  horse- 
hair couch.  "Molly,"  she  said,  without  looking  up,  "you 
can  clear  the  table;  your  master " 

She  glanced  round  suddenly;  the  book  clattered  to  the 
ground.  Mrs.  Huntingdon  half  rose,  surprise  and  anxiety 
clouding  her  face  for  a  second,  and  yet,  in  her  eyes,  Bess 
saw  a  shy  look  of  love  and  furtive  welcome. 

"Bess!"  she  gasped,  and  kissed  her.  "Oh,  my  dear — 
you've  come — and — oh,  but  your  father's  upstairs,  and  I 
don't  know " 

Bess  felt  a  sudden  pang  of  pity,  as  her  mother's  eyes, 
even  while  she  still  embraced  her  daughter,  wandered 
towards  the  door  as  the  way  of  quick  escape,  and  her  ears 
listened  anxiously  for  heavy  footsteps,  and  the  gruff, 
querulous,  domineering  voice.  This  was  a  misery  they  did 
not  know  at  the  Running  Horse — a  misery  which  it  was 
out  of  the  power  of  creditors  or  misfortune  to  inflict. 

Bess  glanced  round  the  room  for  signs  of  changes,  while 
her  mother  mingled  endearments,  timid  questionings, 
reproofs,  in  a  limpid,  forceless  stream,  a  trickle  of  in- 
effectual words.  Long  years  of  marriage  had  left  Mrs. 
Huntingdon  without  even  connected  ideas.  She  found  her 
chief  interest  now  in  reading  silly  books,  sentimental,  but 
without  even  the  merit  of  passion,  like  the  one  still  lying 
on  the  floor.  These,  and  dress,  and  querulous  bickerings 


128  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

with  the  maids,  repaid  by  scarcely  veiled  impertinences, 
made  up  her  life.  It  was  pitiful.  A  feeling  of  nausea  swept 
over  Bess  as  she  thought  of  its  futility  and  emptiness,  as 
she  thought  that  this  had  gone  on  unchanged,  for  all  those 
years — had  been  going  on,  just  as  before,  while  she  was 
living  at  the  inn. 

The  only  alterations  she  saw  were  in  the  furnishing  of 
the  room.  She  noticed  that  her  father  had  gathered,  even 
since  her  departure,  more  of  the  old  family  treasures — a 
clock,  a  settle,  a  punch-bowl,  two  or  three  portraits — which 
her  grandfather  had  sold  or  diced  away.  Ever  since  he 
inherited  the  house,  Roger  Huntingdon  had  been  searching 
patiently  for  some  of  these;  attending  sales  at  country 
houses;  ransacking  the  stores  of  dealers  in  London,  in 
Maidstone  and  Canterbury  and  Tunbridge  Wells.  Now 
many  a  dim,  forgotten  face  that  had  once  been  seen  in  life, 
laughing,  frowning,  enjoying — at  last  sorrowing — in  this 
room,  on  the  stairs,  peering  through  the  open  doorways, 
watched  her  from  the  walls  with  curious  and  wistful  eyes. 
Bess  could  not  repress  a  grudging  admiration  for  her  father, 
so  persistent,  so  indomitable  in  achieving  the  ends  he  had 
in  view  against  all  obstacles. 

Her  mother  brought  back  her  wandering  thoughts. 

"You  don't  listen,  Bess,"  she  complained,  with  childish 
peevishness,  when  some  question  remained  unanswered. 
"You're  like  your  father;  I  may  talk  to  him  for  an  hour, 
and  he  takes  no  more  notice  than  if  I  were  a  stick  or  a 
stone.  You  get  too  wrapped  up  in  your  own  thoughts,  my 
dear;  you  must  guard  against  it;  it  leads  to  a  great  deal 
of  unhappiness." 

"Is  father  likely  to  be  long,  mother?" 

"Why,  dear,  he's  gone  upstairs  to  write  some  letters, 
I  think — though,  to  be  sure,  he  never  tells  me  what  his 
business  is.  I've  often  wished  he  would;  I  might  help 
him — what  do  you  want,  Molly?  Oh,  the  money  for  Mrs. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  129 

Pinion;  yes,  yes;  now  where  is  my  purse?  I  can't  think 
where  I  left  it.  I'll  give  it  you  by  and  by.  What  was  I 
saying?"  The  poor  lady  put  her  hand  helplessly  to  her 
head.  "Oh,  yes;  I  might  have  helped  your  father,  Bess; 
the  mistress  at  school  told  me  I  wrote  a  beautiful  Italian 
hand.  He  was  very  proud  of  it  when  we  were  first  married, 
but  he  never  lets  me  help  him  now.  I  know  I  make  a  good 
many  mistakes,  but  my  memory's  not  what  it  was,  and  he 
knows  I'm  not  very  well — I  must  say  he  might  be  a  little 
more  considerate.  I  hope  John  treats  you  kindly,  dear? 
Of  course,  it's  early  days  yet.  Though,  to  be  sure,  your 
father  and  I — oh,  Bess,  he's  coming  downstairs!"  The 
faded,  plaintive  face  changed  suddenly  to  dismay;  she  put 
her  hand  to  her  side;  Bess  saw  that  she  was  trembling  with 
apprehension.  "Oh,  I  don't  know  what  he'll  say,"  she 
gasped;  "he's  so  angry  if  we  even  talk  of  you  and  John; 
and  I  get  such  sharp  words  when  I  try  to  get  him  to  forgive 
you.  Good-bye,  darling — oh,  I've  been  so  glad " 

Huntingdon  came  slowly  down  the  stairs,  and  in  her 
agitation,  only  half-conscious  of  what  she  was  doing,  Mrs. 
Huntingdon  even  tried  to  hustle  her  daughter  from  the 
room. 

"But  I'm  going  to  stop,  mother,"  Bess  said,  firmly,  her 
courage  braced  by  the  pitiful  weakness  of  the  poor  woman 
who  had  done  her  husband  no  harm  save  to  love  him.  "  I'm 
not  going;  I  want  to  say  something  to  father.  You  must 
help  me,  too.  I  want " 

"Oh,  my  dear,  he'll  never  listen — unless  you're  coming 
home  for  good.  Your  father  never  changes.  But  it's  not 
to  tell  him  that?  You  and  John  haven't  been  quarrelling, 
my  dear?  Make  it  up  with  him  if  you  have,  because,  after 
all — oh,  I'd  dearly  love  you  back,  but  it's  better,  much 
better " 

She  drew  in  her  breath  as  Huntingdon  entered  the  room. 
Her  hand  was  withdrawn  slowly  from  her  daughter's  arm. 
9 


130  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

He  gave  the  two  a  passing  glance — his  wife,  the  very 
picture  of  pathetic,  faded  incompetence;  his  daughter, 
bright-eyed,  erect,  cheeks  flushed  with  excitement. 

Huntingdon  held  the  letters  he  had  just  written  in  his 
hand.  He  walked  across  the  room  to  a  cabinet.  "  Where's 
the  wax?"  he  asked,  gruffly,  in  a  few  moments,  without 
turning  his  head.  "Have  you  taken  it  from  my  room?" 

"No — yes — oh,  yes,  I  remember  I  had  it  to  seal  a  letter 
to  Maria." 

Mrs.  Huntingdon  spoke  like  a  frightened  child,  chidden 
for  some  misdeed.  "Now  where  did  I  put  it?  On  the 
mantelshelf?  No,  I  think  it  was  in  the  little  pot- 
She  was  flying  round  the  room  in  an  agitation  made  all 
the  greater  by  the  watchful  presence  of  her  daughter; 
fumbling  here  and  there  for  the  missing  wax,  making  a 
great  clatter  with  ornaments  and  vases.  The  toe  of  her 
husband's  boot  beat  the  ground  impatiently.  "For  God's 
sake,  leave  the  things  alone  and  think,"  he  said,  testily. 
"Can't  you  remember?" 

"My  head's  so  bad  to-day,  Roger — oh,  yes,  I  know  now." 
She  made  a  pounce  on  a  corner  cupboard,  and  produced  the 
red  stump  from  behind  a  plate.  There  was  a  suggestion  of 
weak  triumph  in  the  discovery.  "I  remember  now;  I 
put  it  there  because  Molly  came  in  to  lay  the  cloth,  and 
I  thought  I'd  be  sure  to  know  then  where  to  find  it  again 
if  you " 

Her  husband  interrupted  the  long  explanation  with  a 
snarl.  Bess  remembered  the  pig  in  the  country  book;  the 
snarl  was  uncommonly  like  the  conclusion  of  that  famous 
yet  terrifying  grunt.  She  was  surprised  suddenly  by  her 
own  coolness;  she  was  even  faintly  amused;  and  then  the 
sense  of  her  mother's  complete  subjection  to  all  his  whims 
and  moods  filled  her  with  an  almost  irresistible  desire  to 
take  her  father  by  the  shoulders,  and  shake  him  thoroughly 
as  one  would  shake  a  peevish  and  ill-mannered  little  boy. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  131 

Huntingdon  had  snatched  the  wax  from  his  wife's  hand, 
and  was  now  folding  and  sealing  his  letters.  He  spent  some 
time  at  this;  deciding,  no  doubt,  while  he  plastered  the 
sputtering  red  wax  on  the  edges  of  the  paper,  on  some 
course  of  action.  At  last  he  straightened  himself,  and 
then  made  as  if  to  quit  the  room. 

"Father!"  cried  Bess,  going  forward  with  outstretched 
hands. 

He  drew  his  own  behind  his  back.  "Well?"  he  said, 
wheeling  suddenly. 

The  one  word,  dryly  uttered,  was  a  question  and  yet 
no  question;  it  found  her  suddenly  unprepared;  all  her 
carefully-thought-out  speeches  were  forgotten,  and  left 
her  mind  almost  a  blank.  She  stammered  and  flushed, 
then  gained  confidence  in  a  kind  of  desperation. 

"Father,  I've  come  back,  you  see,  but — but  I  haven't 
come  to  stop,  and  I  haven't  come  to  say  I'm  sorry  I  mar- 
ried. You  told  me  I  wasn't  to  come  unless  for  that.  But 
I'm  not  sorry;  I'm  glad;  and  I  don't  want  to  pretend.  I 
am  sorry  I  had  to  cause  you  so  much  disappointment — yes, 
I  am  sorry  for  that.  I — we — we've  been  unfortunate, 
though,  and " 

Her  father's  keen  eyes,  under  dark,  shaggy  brows,  were 
bent  on  her,  without  sign  of  feeling,  without  even  curiosity. 

"Well?" 

"And  now — just  for  a  little  while — I  want  you  to  help 
us.  You  know  what  times  have  been,  and  how  differently 
things  have  turned  out  from  what  every  one  expected.  Oh, 
I  know  all  you  can  say,  if  you  like — but  you  won't,  now, 
father,  will  you?  John's  been  mistaken  like  other  people — 
at  least,  he  did  what  he  thought  was  best — and  every  one 
thought  so — and  if  the  Bank  hadn't  failed,  we'd  have  been 
able  to  wait.  You  know  it  was  all  for  me  he  wanted  to 
make  more  money,  and  you'd  have  liked  it  better  to  see 
your  daughter  mistress  of  a — a " 


132  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

She  broke  off;  the  strain  of  those  hard  eyes,  searching 
her  face,  yet  showing  no  sign  of  feeling,  was  disconcerting. 
She  hoped  that  this  suggestion  that  John  had  tried  to  make 
a  home  and  position  for  her  more  in  keeping  with  her  class 
might  help  her  cause.  Yet,  "Good  God!"  Huntingdon  was 
thinking — and  kept  his  lip  with  difficulty  from  scorn — "has 
the  girl  no  sense  of  caste  at  all  ?  Does  she  think  that  if  her 
husband  owned  all  the  inns  in  Kent  it  would  make  one  whit 
of  difference?  A  tavern-keeper — a  man  who  has  to  doff 
cap  to  any  sweaty  tosspot  who  calls  for  his  mug!  And  her 
to  wait  on  them — my  daughter!"  His  blood  heated;  yet 
he  gave  no  sign. 

"  Well  ?     Go  on,  I'm  listening." 

"Oh,  I  wish  you — you'd  make  it  a  little  easier  for  me, 
father.  I  don't  like  asking  you — and  John  doesn't  know; 
but  after  all  I  am  your  daughter,  and  you  ought  to  help  us. 
It's  your  duty  to — no,  I  won't  say  that — but  I've  been 
thinking  over  the  many  times  you  were  kind  to  me  when  I 
was  a  little  girl,  and  it's  natural  I  should  come  to  you  first. 
We  want  some  money  to  save  our  home ;  not  very  much — 

"Why  didn't  your  husband  come  himself?"  interrupted 
her  father,  suddenly.  "He's  very  independent  until  his 
folly  brings  him  into  difficulty,  I  notice.  But  he  doesn't 
scruple  to  come  cringing  for  money " 

"Father!  father!"  pleaded  Mrs.  Huntingdon,  timidly, 
breaking  in  for  the  first  time.  He  silenced  her  with  a 
bitterly  contemptuous  glance,  and  again  Bess  felt  her 
courage  rising  with  her  anger.  After  all,  this  painful 
interview  was  his  shame,  not  hers. 

"No,  he's  not  even  the  spirit  to  do  that,"  went  on 
Huntingdon,  raising  his  voice.  "He  sends  you,  like  the 
cur " 

"I  told  you  he  knew  nothing  of  my  coming,"  Bess 
interrupted,  hotly.  "I'm  sorry  I  came.  Good-bye,  mother." 
She  turned  to  kiss  the  little  woman,  who,  torn  between 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  133 

affection  and  fear,  summoned  up  the  desperate  courage  to 
appeal  to  her  husband  to  forgive. 

"No,  no,  mother,  we  don't  want  him  to  help  us.  We 
have  other — we  have  friends,  I  mean.  I'm  going — I'm 
going  back " 

Tears  of  hot  anger  and  disappointment  were  welling  up; 
fearing  that  she  might  show  them,  she  passed  quickly 
towards  the  door.  Huntingdon  stopped  her. 

"I  haven't  said  I  wouldn't  help  you,"  he  said,  churlishly. 
"  I  didn't  say  so.  But  I'm  not  going  to  put  my  hands  in  my 
pockets  without  inquiry.  You  seem  to  think  it's  my  duty 
to  make  money  so  that  I  may  hand  it  over  to  any  brace  of 
fools  who  make  a  muck  of  their  own  fortunes,  and  then 
come  to  me  and  cry,  'Stand  and  deliver.'  Now  sit  down, 
and  don't  be  a  fool."  Bess  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went 
on  towards  the  door. 

"Oh,  Bess  dear,"  whispered  her  mother,  catching  her 
arm,  "don't  be  unreasonable,  my  darling.  Father's  ready 
to  help  you;  it's  only  natural  he  should  want  an  explanation 
first.  He  works  hard  for  his  money." 

"No,  mother;  we  must  fight  our  own  battles,  I  see.  I 
can't  take  help  of  any  one  who  speaks  like  that  about 
John." 

Roger  Huntingdon  caught  her  arm  almost  savagely, 
and  thrust  her  into  a  chair.  "Sit  down,  I  say,  and  don't 
be  a  little  fool.  There,  there,  I'll  take  back  what  I  said 
about  your  husband."  He  eyed  her  with  grudging  admira- 
tion. Her  defiant  little  head,  her  flushed  cheeks,  her  eyes 
bright  with  angry  tears,  heightened  her  beauty.  Perhaps 
the  brooch — his  gift — woke  old  memories.  He  paced  the 
room  for  a  minute  in  silence;  Bess  sat  irresolute. 

"How  much  do  you  want?" 

"  I — I  don't  know  whether  I  could  take  it,  father.  If— 
if  John " 

"Come,  how  much?" 


134  RUNNING   HORSE  INN 

She  named  the  amount.  "But  we'll  only  borrow  it. 
We'll  pay- 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  There's 
a  mortgage  on  the  inn,  isn't  there?  Who  holds  it?  Well, 
if  you  come  back " 

"Comeback?" 

"Ay,  come  back — leave  your  husband;  I'll  pay  him 
enough " 

She  rose,  without  a  word  for  his  offer. 

"There,  there,"  he  said  testily,  "you  can  keep  still  until 
I've  finished.  You  won't  do  that?  Well,  I  supposed  not. 
If  you  still  live  with  him,  I'll  help  you  only  on  business 
terms.  I'll  take  over  the  mortgage;  your  husband  need 
not  pay  this  quarter;  the  amount  can  stand  over  until 
next.  I'll  see  it  put  in  proper  legal  form.  Have  you  any 
money  now?" 

He  unlocked  a  cash-box,  and  brought  out  a  roll  of 
guineas.  "Look  here,"  he  said,  and  to  her  amazement  his 
face  changed  from  surly  gloom  to  a  sudden  smile  of  friend- 
liness. "I've  some  of  your  grandfather  in  me  still;  we'll 
have  a  wager  with  fortune.  There,  does  that  satisfy  you? 
Well,  go  home,  and  see  if  you  can  pull  through  with  that. 
When  you're  tired  of  your  husband,  or  when  he's  brought 
you  to  the  gutter — plague  take  you,  miss,  you  won't  let 
your  father  have  his  joke,  I  see,  even  when  he's  beggaring 
himself  to  help  you!  John's  like  the  holy  mountain  that 
no  one  may  come  near  or  touch.  Oh,  you  needn't  thank 
me." 

"I — I  don't  know  how  to,"  said  Bess,  helplessly.  The 
change  was  so  sudden,  so  amazing.  A  full  quarter's  grace! 
And  ten  guineas  to  go  on  with!  It  was  rare  news  to  take 
back  to  the  inn.  "Oh,  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you 
enough!"  She  kissed  him,  an  advance  he  received  with  an 
ungracious  roughness  that  checked  her  ardour  and  gave 
her  fresh  cause  for  bewilderment. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  135 

She  walked  back,  however,  in  a  tumult  of  delight.  She 
had  succeeded — the  money  in  her  hanging  pocket  was  a 
solid  reality,  and  no  fairy  gold.  No  perplexity  about  that, 
as  about  her  father's  sudden  and  mysterious  changes  of 
mood;  it  was  there — there  to  convince  her  that  the  inter- 
view was  no  dream. 

A  mat  of  purple  heath  on  the  common  land  skirting  the 
road  caught  her  eyes;  she  ran  to  it  like  a  child,  and  picked 
a  great  bunch  for  the  table,  to  celebrate  the  day — it  would 
be  fresh  on  the  morrow,  when  John  returned.  She  put  some 
in  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  and  sang  a  snatch  of  song  as  she 
gained  the  high  road  a  little  farther  on. 

Fifty  yards  from  the  sea  she  met  George,  coming  to 
meet  her.  "I  won't  tell  him  yet,"  she  thought;  "he  shall 
hear  when  John  comes  back.  I  won't  tell  John  at  first, 
either."  She  planned  the  surprise;  yes,  she  would  listen 
dolefully  to  John's  account  of  failure — if  he  had  failed — 
hear  his  story  to  the  bitter  end;  and  then — yes,  she  would, 
to  punish  him  for  doubting  her  that  morning,  even  for  a 
moment.  But  the  punishment  would  soon  be  over,  in 
such  a  glad  revulsion  from  gloom  to  joy. 

"Hullo,  Bess,  my  girl!" 

She  tried  to  practise  looking  doleful,  but  the  effort  was 
a  failure,  and  she  answered  George's  greeting  with  a  smiling 
face. 


CHAPTER  X 

was  smiling,  too;  the  gloomy  look  of  the  last 
V-J  few  weeks  had  vanished.  There  was  the  air  of  a 
schoolboy  freed  from  school  about  him;  he  walked  with 
more  swing,  and  had,  as  the  saying  went,  that  "cock  your 
beaver  and  wink  at  the  girls"  look  affected  by  men-at- 
arms  in  all  centuries.  Bess's  glad  heart  seemed  to  run 
to  meet  his.  If  she  had  to  keep  her  secret  for  a  night  and 
half  a  day,  it  would  certainly  be  easier  to  keep  it  in  cheer- 
ful company. 

"I  thought  I  saw  you  coming  as  I  crossed  the 
downs,  Bess,"  said  George.  "Where  have  you  been? 
My  wig,  what  a  bunch!  In  your  frock,  too!  Let's  have 
some." 

"There!"  she  said,  shaking  out  the  bunch  of  heath 
towards  him,  "you  can  carry  it  home  if  you're  good. 
They're  meant  for  the  table,  but — why,  what  are  you 
doing,  George?"  He  had  stopped  in  front  of  her,  and  was 
taking  some  of  the  heath  from  her  bosom.  "I  want  some 
to  wear,"  he  said.  "Let's  have  a  bit  you've  been  wearing. 
You  don't  want  no  more  colour  than  what  you've  got  in 
your  cheeks;  seems  unnecessary,  somehow." 

"Oh,  don't  you  like  it  in  my  frock?  But  I  hope  my  face 
isn't  that  colour;  I  must  look  a  fright."  She  turned  her 
eyes  on  George;  those  provoking,  smiling,  inscrutable  eyes, 
a  glance  from  which,  even  when  he  was  a  boy  and  she  a 
little  lass,  had  filled  his  head  with  dreams. 

" I'll  take  it  out,  then.  No,  don't  you  try."  His  fingers, 
trembling  and  clumsy,  were  trying  to  detach  the  stems 
from  the  lace. 

"I'll  do  it.  Oh,  you're  scratching  me,  George!  Let  be, 
do  I" 

136 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  137 

He  put  down  his  hands  and  stood  watching;  the  feel  of 
the  warm,  firm  young  breast  against  which  his  fingers  had 
brushed  for  a  second  tingled  through  him  still.  Bess, 
glancing  down,  so  that  the  long  lashes  seemed  almost  to 
brush  the  smooth  curves  of  her  sunlit  cheeks,  disentangled 
the  long  stalks.  She  tossed  the  little  cluster  suddenly  into 
the  dusty  road.  George  stretched  out  his  hand  to  catch 
them,  with  a  cry,  but  her  foot  pressed  the  tiny  purple 
bells  into  the  dust. 

"Now  you're  satisfied!"  she  said.  "Do  I  look  better 
now?  Oh,  you  can  wear  the  whole  bunch,  if  you  like,  you 
know."  George  swallowed,  but  kept  silence.  "Now  we 
must  hurry  back  in  time  for  'Lilah's  kettle." 

"You're  rare  smart  this  afternoon,  Bess,"  said  George, 
at  last,  as  they  passed  the  mill. 

"Think  so?" 

"Yes;  best  frock  and  shoes'n  all.  What's  it  for?  No 
one's  birthday,  or  christening,  is  it?" 

"Oh,  it's — it's "  What  reason  should  she  give, 

without  telling  the  secret  that  made  her  heart  sing?  Light 
banter,  in  the  key  which  George  had  set  when  he  asked  for 
the  sprig  of  heath  from  her  frock,  gave  her  a  way  of 
escape  from  the  directness  of  the  question.  "It's  because 
we're  going  to  have  tea  alone  together,  of  course,  George. 
It's  not  often  John's  away." 

"That's  it,  is  it?"  said  George,  in  the  same  tone.  "I 
s'pose  I'll  have  to  dress  myself  up  too,  then." 

"Oh,  you  look  very  nice  this  afternoon.  I'll  excuse 
you  if  you  wash  your  hands." 

He  washed  in  the  yard;  as  he  did  so,  he  thought  again 
of  the  words  he  had  overheard  that  morning  while  groom- 
ing Blossom  near  the  open  window,  words  which  had  been 
ringing  in  his  ears  all  the  afternoon.  "If  we  were  ruined, 
of  course  I'd  be  sorry  I'd  married  you.  You  know  I  married 
you  for  what  you  were  going  to  give  me.  .  .  .  Love 


138  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

flies  out  of  the  window  when  poverty  comes  in.  ... 
I'd  run  away  with  some  man  who'd  sense  enough  to  keep 
his  wife  from  starving,  perhaps.  .  .  ." 

The  shade  of  irritation  in  her  voice  had  convinced  him 
that  she  was  angry  with  her  husband.  What  she  had  said 
about  John's  absence — though  under  the  mask  of  banter — 
seemed  now  to  give  significance  to  the  words  he  had  over- 
heard. He  thought  of  her  merry  mood,  when  they  seemed 
caught  in  the  very  net  of  ruin,  and  when  John,  heavy- 
hearted,  was,  no  doubt,  searching  from  post  to  pillar  for 
some  way  of  escape.  He  remembered,  too — and  the  hot 
blood  rose — the  scent  of  her  hair  as  he  bent  over  her,  the 
dark  lashes  brushing  her  cheeks,  the  thrill  that  went 
through  him  as  his  fingers  touched  the  soft  skin  half  hidden 
by  the  dainty  edge  of  lace. 

When  he  entered  the  parlour,  Delilah  was  laying  the 
cloth  for  tea.  She  was  in  a  state  of  joyful  sniffing  over  a 
sudden  death  which  had  occurred  in  an  adjoining  parish. 
"A  robustious  man  he  was,  too,  mum,"  she  was  saying  to 
Bess,  "which  shows  that  there's  but  a  step  between  us  and 
death,  even  the  healthiest  of  us.  You'm  looking  very 
blooming  now;  but  it's  a  norful  thought  as  how  to-morrow 
you  might  be  lying  white  as  chalk  on  that  bed  upstairs, 
which  you  will  be  doing,  sure  as  fate,  please  God,  one  of 
these  days,  Missus  Kennett.  Ay,  you  might  be  lying  there 
to-morrow — and  in  a  week's  time " 

"Well,  cut  the  bread  and  butter,  'Lilah,"  interrupted 
Bess,  unfastening  her  hat  strings. 

"  Yes'm."  But  Delilah  was  never  to  be  silenced  for  many 
minutes. 

"Did  you  ever  see  Must'  Tomson,  mum?  A  great, 
blustrous  man  he  was,  with  a  red  face  that  ought  to  have 
lasted  him  out  nigh  a  hundred  year;  but  a  whited  sepulchre 
it  was  for  all  that,  and  didn't  save  him  from  going  off  quite 
sudden.  He  had  an  abyss  inside  him,  I  did  hear,  and 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  139 

it  cut  him  down  like  a  thief  in  the  night,  as  the  Bible  says 
somewhere.  A  free-living  man,  too,  like  his  feyther  before 
him;  fond  of  drink  and  worse,  but  I  reckon  he  won't  get  no 
drink  where  he's  gone  to,  poor  blood — though  serve  him 
right,  certainly." 

"Hello,  more  brimstone,  'Lilah?"  said  George.  "That 
parson  of  yours  at  Blengate  seems  to  think  the  devil  comes 
for  every  one  who  don't  hold  with  his  own  views.  Very 
obliging  way  of  helping  Mr.  Podmore,  the  devil  seems  to 
have." 

Delilah  tossed  her  head,  and  turned  a  gloomy,  freckled 
face  towards  George. 

"I'd  thank  you  not  to  jest  on  sacred  subjects,  Must' 
George,"  she  said,  severely.  "  I  suppose  you  think  there's 
no  fiery  indignation  for  the  wicked;  but  you'm  wery  much 
mistook,  and  I'm  afraid  you'll  find  that  out  when  it's  too 
late  for  repentance,  though  seeking  it  with  tears." 

"Who's  sacred,  'Lilah?  The  devil,  or  your  Blengate 
parson?  Seems  to  me  you  take  more  interest  in  the  Rev- 
erend Podmore  than's  seemly  in  an  unmarried  female." 

"You  may  throw  that  in  my  face,  Must'  George,"  said 
Delilah,  with  the  air  of  an  early  martyr;  "yes,  you  may 
reproach  me  with  what  ain't  my  fault " 

"No,  I'll  allow  it  ain't  your  fault  you're  not  married, 
'Lilah,"  retorted  George.  "I  reckon  you've  tried  hard 
enough.  There's  Thorn  now " 

"I  pass  that  by,"  went  on  Delilah,  "as  the  crackling  of 
thorns  under  the  pot.  But,  be  you  Master's  brother  or  not, 
I'll  listen  to  no  words  of  yours  against  the  devil;  no,  I  will 
not — as  if  you  know  better'n  what  the  Bible  says!  I  wonder 
you  haven't  been  struck  dead,  I  do,  like  that  godless  sailor 
over  at  Rochester.  Perhaps  you  didn't  hear  tell  of  it,  as 
you  were  away  at  the  wars.  They  were  talking  about 
'God  willing'  on  a  poster,  laughing  and  jesting  in  their 
reckless  way;  and  the  sailor,  taking  up  his  pot  of  beer, 


140  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

said,  'Well,  God  willing  or  not,  I'm  going  to  drink  this 
ale,'  and  just  as  he  was  putting  it  to  his  lips — that  wery 
moment — his  face  turned  ashy  white,  and  he  fell  forward, 
and  when  they  went  to  pick  him  up,  they  found  he  was 
stone  dead.  And  you  can  see  that  in  print,"  she  ended, 
triumphantly. 

"A  mighty  little  thing  to  make  so  much  fuss  about, 
'Lilah,"  said  George.  "Why,  you  or  me  wouldn't  kill  a 
man  for  such  a  trifle." 

"Ah,  God's  ways  ain't  ours,  Must'  George!"  said  'Lilah, 
shaking  her  head.  "The  Almighty  don't  reckon  it  no  lit- 
tle thing  to  be  defied  by  His  creatures. 

"  '  Fierce  and  relentless  is  His  wrath, 

Against  the  souls  that  sin  ; 
He  opens  wide  the  gates  of  Hell, 
To  let  the '" 

"Oh,  Delilah,"  said  Bess,  who  had  been  busily  arranging 
the  heath,  and  had  hitherto  taken  no  part  in  the  discussion, 
"what  frightful  hymns  you  do  learn!  Can't  you  give  us 
something  more  cheerful?  These  flowers  don't  say  much 
about  hell-fire  and  awful  judgments;  they  tell  us  about  the 
beautiful  world,  and  happiness,  and  the  sunshine  and  warm 
rains " 

"That's  all  wery  well,  mum,"  said  Delilah,  no  whit 
relaxing  her  severity;  "but  it  don't  alter  the  fact  that 
'most  all  people  are  hurrying  to  destruction  as  fast  as  their 
legs  '11  carry  'em,  and  it's  our  duty  to  speak  a  word  in  sea- 
son." 

"Well,  I  think  it'd  do  most  people  more  good  to  think 
about  the  flowers.  If  I  love  any  one  very  much,  and  feel 
very  thankful  to  them  for  what  they've  done  for  me,  I'd 
much  rather  do  what  they  want  me  to  do,  and  try  to  please 
them  because  of  that,  than  if  they  were  always  frightening 
me,  and  shouting  at  me,  and  holding  up  a  stick  to  threaten 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  141 

me.  I  always  think  God  gave  us  flowers  to  tell  us  how  kind 
He  really  is,  if  we  only  knew  it,  in  spite  of  all  that  puzzles 
us  and  seems  terrible  and  cruel.  Just  fancy  inventing  all 
the  different  patterns,  and  different  beautiful  colours,  and 
different  sweet  scents,  and  making  them  so  that,  when 
we're  old  or  ill,  some  of  the  open  air  can  be  brought  indoors 
to  us,  just  to  show  us  what  the  gardens  and  the  woods  and 
the  hedgerows  are  like.  And  flowers  are  never  cruel  like 
the  sea;  or  too  far  off  to  be  touched,  like  the  sky;  or  buried 
for  the  rich  and  the  strong  like  gold  and  jewels — every  one 
may  have  them,  the  rich  and  the  poor  and  the  feeble;  and 
they  take  part  in  all  our  happiness,  and  help  to  heal  our 
grief.  When  we're  married,  and  when " 

"I  wonder  if  they'll  have  some  at  Tomson's  funeral, 
now,"  reflected  Delilah.  "Just  as  well  to  give  him — oh, 
my,  the  water  in  the  kettle's  all  boiling  away,  mum,"  she 
broke  off  suddenly,  rushing  into  the  kitchen  to  pour  the 
water  upon  the  tea-leaves. 

Having  filled  the  brown  teapot,  Delilah  went  into  the 
taproom,  to  pore  over  Foxe's  Book  of  Martyrs  and  reflect 
on  her  last  discussion  until  some  customer  should  come  in. 
She  had  some  contempt  for  the  Established  Church,  to 
which  John  and  Bess  belonged,  but  had  just  tolerance 
enough  to  admit  that  it  was  better  than  paganism,  and 
might  possibly  squeeze  a  few  of  the  fortunate  through  the 
narrow  gate.  But  George  had  soon  given  up  church-going, 
and  scoffed  openly  at  her  chapel  and  her  minister — a  man 
who  regularly  every  Sunday  shook  the  unelect  over  the  pit, 
but,  out  of  pulpit,  never  knew  how  to  refuse  help  and 
kindly  greetings  even  to  the  least  deserving.  Delilah  was 
observant;  she  had  not  failed  to  notice  George's  many 
lapses;  she  had  noticed,  too,  the  way  in  which  his  eyes 
followed  his  brother's  wife  as  she  moved  like  sunshine  about 
the  house.  She  often  trembled,  on  stormy  nights,  lest  God 
should  launch  some  special  judgment  against  the  inn.  In 


142  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

her  own  mind,  Delilah  Gummer,  the  one  thoroughly 
righteous  person,  acted  as  a  kind  of  lightning  conductor; 
but  for  her,  it  and  all  its  occupants  might  long  ago  have 
been  consumed,  like  Lot's  city  in  the  plain.  To  do  her 
justice,  it  was  rather  regard  for  John  and  Bess  than  the 
wages  they  were  able  to  pay  her  that  kept  Delilah  from 
shaking  the  dust  of  the  inn  from  off  her  feet,  and  seeking 
fresh  employment  at  Jack  and  Joan's  Fair  in  Canterbury 
Market-place. 

Bess  and  George  had  tea  in  quietness;  she  had  not 
changed  her  frock,  and  made  a  dainty  and  pretty  picture, 
sitting  there  at  the  neatly  spread  table.  George  had  had 
some  such  picture  in  his  mind  throughout  the  long  cam- 
paigns, a  picture  gazed  at  very  often  on  dark,  wakeful 
nights,  on  long  rainy  marches,  on  his  uneasy  bed  after 
Toulouse.  Now  he  played  a  child's  game  of  imagination; 
he  and  Bess  were  married,  after  all — in  their  own  home,  at 
tea  together,  the  world  shut  out.  At  tea!  De  Quincey's 
famous  picture  of  comfort  shows  not  the  great  steaming 
joint,  not  the  foaming  tankard  and  blue  smoke  clouds, 
but  the  tea-kettle  humming  in  that  little  book-lined  room 
"seventeen  feet  by  twelve,"  cups  for  two,  and  ("as  it  is 
very  unpleasant  to  make  tea  or  pour  it  out  for  oneself") 
a  lovely  young  woman,  with  smiles  like  Hebe's,  sitting  at 
the  table.  At  tea!  It  was  the  ideal  meal  for  cosiness  and 
comradeship  and  comfort. 

The  striking  of  the  sullen-faced  clock  in  the  taproom 
made  him  count  the  long  evening  hours  until  bedtime — 
five  of  them,  five  glorious  hours,  and  his  brother  not  there 
— not  even  his  step  to  be  listened  for — to  remind  him  that 
this  was  all  a  dream,  never  to  be  realised — never! 

He  meant  to  be  loyal  to  John  in  deed  and  word,  and — 
if  that  were  only  possible — in  thought.  Yet  he  felt  the 
glee  of  the  slave  on  some  Saturnalian  morn;  for  a  few 
hours  imagination,  moving  mountains  of  difficulty,  might 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  143 

set  him  in  his  brother's  place.  Gloom  lay  behind  them, 
darker  clouds  ahead,  but  for  an  evening  he  was  going  to 
fling  care  to  the  winds  and  be  happy.  He  tried  to  analyse 
his  emotions,  his  cheerfulness.  Why  had  his  heart  leapt 
up  when  he  had  heard  that  John  was  staying  that  night  in 
Canterbury  ?  He  assured  himself  that  he  harboured  no  shade 
of  disloyalty  to  his  brother — good  old  John !  But  what  was 
it  that  made  his  step  jaunty,  his  voice  ring  with  a  new  note, 
when  he  went  to  meet  Bess — Bess,  with  the  purple  heath 
gathered  in  her  hand,  the  spray  in  the  bosom  of  her  frock — 
on  the  Canterbury  road?  Looking  across  the  table,  he 
wished  that  he  could  see  again  the  same  glance  from  those 
inscrutable  eyes,  the  same  demure  compression  of  the  lips, 
that  he  had  seen  when  he  tried  to  disentangle  the  stems 
from  the  lace,  and  felt  the  touch  of  her  warm  body.  And 
if  she  would  look  down  again — yes,  she  was  looking  down, 
as  she  poured  the  tea  into  his  cup — and  her  dark  lashes 
were  brushing  the  soft  curves  of  her  cheeks,  lit  with  the 
fires  of  youthful  blood. 

He  took  the  cup  from  her  with  trembling  fingers.  "  You're 
very  solemn  and  quiet,  George,"  she  said,  half  pouting.  "I 
don't  like  people  to  be  too  serious.  Mind — you'll  spill  it. 
Tell  me  how  you  like  this  new  kind  of  cake  I've  made — oh, 
but  you  must  have  bread  and  butter  first;  duty  before 
pleasure,  you  know.  Now  do  talk;  I  can't  all  by  myself." 

Had  he  been  very  silent?  It  was  the  silence  then,  not 
of  gloom  and  reticence,  but  of  a  strange  and  almost  ominous 
happiness.  He  made  some  jest,  in  a  voice  that  sounded 
strained  and  unnatural  to  himself,  but  was  greeted  with 
merry  laughter  and  quick  retort.  Her  eyes  were  bright, 
there  was  a  thrill  as  of  some  subtle  excitement  in  her  tone, 
she  was  more  gay  than  he  had  ever  known  her.  And  yet 
this  fearful  shadow  hung  over  them!  And  yet  John 
was  away  on  an  errand  that  all  thought  must  be  unsuc- 
cessful ! 


144  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Late  sunshine  streamed  into  the  room;  bright,  cheer- 
ful colours  glowed  from  the  patchwork  cushions;  red 
light  filtered  through  the  rep  curtains,  and  stained  the 
white  table-cloth.  Through  the  chinks  between  blind 
and  window-frame  they  could  see  fowls  pecking  at 
grain  and  worms  in  the  yard,  near  the  great  butt  of  rain- 
water. 

Bess,  at  least,  could  not  be  accused  of  quietness.  Soon 
they  were  chatting,  arguing,  laughing,  so  loudly  that 
Delilah,  reading  her  tragedies  in  the  next  room,  frowned 
and  knit  her  freckled  brows. 

Bess  rose  at  last,  with  a  whisk  of  her  skirt  and  petti- 
coats, to  clear  away;  George  helped  her  clumsily,  collid- 
ing with  her  now  and  then  in  his  efforts  to  be  first,  and 
earning  her  laughing  reproof.  What  a  mad  mood!  The 
most  trifling  thing  made  her  merry.  George  thought  again 
of  the  words  he  had  overheard.  Less  literal  than  his 
brother,  he  had  not  taken  them  very  seriously  at  first. 
But  were  they  true?  He  knew  that  poverty  could  not 
have  changed  her  love.  But  had  she  loved  John?  Was 
she,  too,  playing  that  secret  game  now — fancying  that 
George  had  really  come  back  in  time  from  the  wars;  that 
they  were  married;  that  John  had  never  come  between 
them? 

Was  she  glad,  as  he  was,  because  for  a  few  hours  the 
tension  was  to  be  relaxed — because  they  were  alone  to- 
gether, and  could  make  believe  like  children?  At  the 
thought,  his  head  grew  dizzy. 

She  was  pinning  on  a  great  pinafore  now,  and  rolling  up 
her  sleeves  over  her  dimpled  arms,  getting  ready  to  wash  up. 
"I  ought  to  take  my  frock  off,"  she  said,  "but  I  shan't 
bother." 

Yes;  why  had  she  put  on  her  best  dress,  her  brooch — ? 
A  dozen  little  incidents  and  remarks,  having  no  signifi- 
cance before,  but  fraught  now  with  a  significance  tre- 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  145 

mendous,  appalling,  yet  deliriously  sweet,  crowded  upon 
him. 

He  heard  the  rush  of  water  against  tin  in  the  scullery, 
the  rattle  of  plates  and  cups.  And  Bess  was  singing — 

"  '  Oh,  a  glad  world,  my  dears,  and  a  mad  world, 
IB  this  world  that  love  walks  in, 
With  his  eye  so  bright,  and  his  step  so  light, 
As  he  comes  to  the  cottage  door  at  night, 
Or  the  door ' 

Come  and  help,  George,  you  lazy  boy." 

"You  seem  glad  and  mad  to-night,  Bess,"  he  said,  his 
voice  husky.  "Why  is  it?" 

She  paused  a  moment  before  answering.  Yes,  she  was 
in  a  mad  and  merry  mood — but  no  wonder.  They  were 
saved;  the  breach  between  her  father  and  her  husband  had 
been  healed — and  she  had  done  it.  But  she  wouldn't  say 
a  word  until  John  came  back;  they  must  share  the  joy 
together.  Oh,  but  what  a  joke  it  was  to  puzzle  George! 

She  turned  her  eyes  on  him,  narrowed;  those  eyes  that, 
even  wide  open,  he  could  rarely  read.  "It's — it's — well, 
don't  you  think,  when  you're  married,  George,  you'll  be 
glad  to  have  your  freedom  for  a  few  hours,  now  and  then  ? 
Only  now  and  then,  of  course." 

George  looked  at  her  so  curiously  and  so  hard  that  she 
began  to  think  he  must  suspect  some  secret. 

"Depends  on  who  I  was  married  to,"  he  said,  with  a 
gruff,  broken  laugh. 

"Oh,  with  any  one — any  one,"  she  said,  and  went  on 
again  with  her  song. 

"  But  a  sad  world,  my  dears,  and  a  bad  world, 
Is  this  world  when  love  walks  out, 
With  his  looks  careworn,  and  his  heart  forlorn, 
As  he  goes  away  ere  the  reddening  dawn, 
And  leaves  behind  him  hearts  that  doubt. " 
10 


146  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

George  went  through  into  the  taproom.  Hands  in 
pockets,  he  strolled  aimlessly  about  the  room;  Delilah's 
eyes,  lifted  from  stake  and  flames,  followed  him  resentfully. 
As  he  glanced  at  the  ballad-sheets  on  the  wall,  without 
reading  them,  the  soft  musical  voice  still  sounded  in  his 
ears. 

The  clock  ticked  away  the  minutes;  he  took  a  curious, 
tantalising  pleasure  in  denying  himself  Bess's  company  for 
as  long  as  he  found  it  possible  to  resist.  He  looked  out  of 
the  window.  The  sun  was  marching  down  on  the  last  post 
of  his  journey,  towards  the  misty  outline  of  Sheppey.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  day's  home  lay  in  some  haunt  near 
that  green  island  of  sheep  and  corn,  and  the  tired  trav- 
eller was  hurrying  after  his  long  march  across  the  sky  to 
plunge  into  the  cool  water  and  be  at  rest.  It  was  a 
lovely  autumn  evening;  the  light,  though  tempered,  was 
yet  strong  enough  to  bring  out  all  the  colours  of  the 
countryside — colours  that  would  now  soften  and  grow 
more  beautiful,  if  less  bright,  with  every  minute  of  closing 
day. 

He  went  back  suddenly  to  the  parlour.  "Come  out  on 
the  downs,  Bess,"  he  said,  abruptly.  "Best  time  of  day 
coming  now.  Just  look  at  the  beginnings  of  sunset!" 

They  went  out  together  into  the  yard;  the  great  evening 
pageant  was  just  commencing. 

"It  is  lovely,"  she  said,  in  a  hushed  voice.  She  was  in 
the  mood  for  the  open  air.  "I'm  sure  I  should  burst  if 
I  had  to  keep  many  secrets,"  she  thought  to  herself.  Aloud, 
she  said,  "I — I  don't  quite  know  whether  I  ought  to, 
George.  There  won't  be  much  for  Delilah  to  do,  though, 
and  we  shan't  be  long." 

"Oh,  'Lilah  '11  sandwich  any  customers  in  between  axe 
and  flames,"  said  George.  "Come  along,  Bess." 

"Very  well,  I'll  come.  Wait  a  little  minute  while  I  put 
on  my  hat." 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  147 

She  went  into  the  taproom,  and  roused  Delilah  out  of  a 
day-dream  in  which  she  was  defying  an  army  of  inquisitors, 
the  chief  of  them  having  eyes  like  those  of  George. 

"Mr.  George  and  I  are  going  out,  'Lilah,"  said  Bess; 
"we  shan't  be  very  long." 

Delilah  sniffed  and  bent  down  over  her  book. 

George  and  Bess  went  out. 


CHAPTER   XI 

THE  tide  was  low;  great  stretches  of  green  weed,  brighter 
than  grass,  had  been  bared  by  the  receding  waves. 
Row-boats  and  small  fishing-smacks  lay  canted  over  on  the 
sands,  still  and  peaceful  as  if  resting,  exhausted,  after 
stiff  tussles  with  the  sea.  Very  far  out — so  far  that  it 
seemed  almost  as  if  they  were  walking  to  find  the  red  hori- 
zon— were  two  or  three  dark  figures;  trawlers,  these, 
creeping  slowly  across  the  sky-line.  A  few  children  played 
round  the  pools  of  glistening  water;  others,  shouting  and 
laughing,  pattered  past  them,  with  bare  legs  and  feet 
berry-brown.  At  present,  vivid  blue  ruled  the  sky;  the 
far  sea  was  a  narrow  ribbon  of  blue,  rimming  the  world's 
edge,  but  nearer  Sheppey  the  ribbon  had  turned  to  red, 
and  from  the  west  ochre  and  gold  and  rose  and  smoky 
drabs  were  crowding  forward  like  many  regiments  in  an 
army  of  invasion. 

Bess,  thrilling  with  a  hundred  thoughts  of  happiness, 
loving  the  little  place,  and  hoping  now  that  it  might  be 
their  home  until  the  evening  of  life,  chattered  on.  They 
passed  the  squat  black  mill;  and  the  thought  of  Homer- 
sham  reminded  her  once  more  of  the  failure.  What  a  day 
it  had  been!  Two  or  three  neighbours  were  at  their  doors. 
She  need  no  longer  fear  wagging  tongues,  shaking  heads, 
comments  sharp  or,  worse  still,  sympathetic  on  John's  pre- 
sumption in  trying  to  be  better  than  his  fathers  before  him. 
Already  people  were  beginning  to  guess  that  their  enterprise 
had  been  hitherto  unsuccessful,  and  to  speculate  about  dis- 
aster; Bess  had  noticed  pitying  or  censorious  glances  some- 
times as  she  passed.  But  now  John  could  pay  all  his  debts 
in  full,  and  look  every  one  in  the  face,  and  wait  a  little 
longer  for  the  prosperous  days  that  would  be  sure  to  come. 

148 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  149 

They  stopped  on  the  breast  of  the  downs,  with  the  little 
hamlet  and  the  sea  below  them.  The  mill,  with  its  great 
arms  still,  stood  like  a  guardian  over  the  cluster  of  red- 
tiled  and  lichened  roofs,  wooden  and  plastered  walls. 
Now  the  western  sky  was  all  aflame  with  colour;  the  sun, 
an  enormous  ball  of  fire,  at  the  edge  of  the  sea  between 
Sheppey  and  Whitstable.  Water  and  sands  seemed  to 
crouch  very  low,  as  if  for  sleep.  Far  away  a  few  tiny  oyster 
boats  caught  the  rosy  glow  on  the  tips  of  their  sails.  Sand 
and  water  glittered  like  an  enormous  sheet  of  opal,  flash- 
ing pink  and  gold,  amber,  and  pearl  grey.  Each  little, 
lonely  pool  among  sand  or  weed  stole  its  own  choice  of 
colour  from  the  sky.  Inland,  the  country  darkened; 
masses  of  trees  grew  soft;  harsh  angles  and  outlines  of 
cottage  and  farmstead,  lew  and  barn,  were  beginning  to 
lose  the  sharp  definition  of  daylight,  and  to  fade  into  dusky 
vagueness. 

Together,  not  speaking  now,  Bess  and  George  drank  in 
the  sight  of  all  this  glory,  waiting  breathlessly  on  each 
changing  moment.  Once  George  turned  away,  but  Bess 
caught  his  sleeve  and  said:  "Oh,  let  us  just  wait  and  see 
the  sun  sink  down!"  A  minute  before  it  sank,  he  made 
her  look  at  the  long  range  of  yellow  cliffs  behind  them, 
fringed  with  hushed  green,  and,  at  the  end,  Reculver, 
faint-rose  against  faint-blue.  "Oh,  it  is  beautiful!"  said 
Bess,  and  then  caught  his  arm  suddenly  again  as  the  great 
burning  sun  seemed  to  pause  on  the  rim  of  the  sea.  They 
watched  in  silence.  Quite  suddenly,  the  sun  fell  from 
heaven;  the  water  closed  on  the  fiery  ball.  So  real  was  the 
illusion,  one  almost  listened  for  the  hiss  of  molten  gold 
plunging  into  the  cool  depths. 

A  sigh,  the  faintest  tremor,  seemed  to  pass  over  the  face 
of  the  land.  A  little  wind  rustled  the  tasselled  and  feath- 
ered grasses  and  shook  the  stubble  in  a  barley-field  on  their 
left,  at  the  edge  of  the  downs.  Light  still  lingered,  reluc- 


150  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

tant  to  leave  the  world,  though  the  opal  hues  on  sand  and 
shallows  paled;  deeper  silence  fell  with  the  going  of  day. 
High  on  the  foreshore  a  collier  from  the  north  was  moored; 
her  hull  and  spars  grew  gradually  ink-black,  the  russet 
sail  darkened.  Under  her  tall  hull  some  little  carts  were 
unloading  her;  the  horses  stood  limply,  hock-deep  in  water 
left  by  the  tide,  with  hanging  heads,  and  wisps  of  tails 
swaying  now  and  then;  when  a  cart  was  filled,  men  shouted, 
and  dragged  the  horses,  plunging,  up  the  shingle;  the 
sound  of  the  voices,  the  sliding  and  grating  of  the  beach 
under  hoofs  and  wheels,  the  hollow  dropping  of  the  coals 
into  the  wooden  carts — all  these  sounds,  coming  from  afar 
through  the  stillness,  only  emphasised  the  placid  quietude 
of  the  autumn  evening. 

"The  sun  sank  in  just  like  that — suddenly,  George— 
on  the  night  your  mother  died." 

George  did  not  answer  for  a  few  moments.  "Ah,"  he 
said  at  last,  and  was  silent.  The  few  words,  the  almost 
whispered  reminder,  in  conjunction  with  this  loveliness 
of  evening  silence,  were  like  a  spell  cast  over  evil  thoughts 
that  had  worked  in  him  since  ruin  had  seemed  inevitable 
—and  since  he  had  harboured  the  suspicion  that  his  love 
was  secretly  returned.  Perhaps  the  saddest  and  most 
solemn  sight  on  earth  is  a  sea  sunset;  and  to  him  the 
thought  that  this  sight  they  had  just  seen  together  was  the 
last  that  his  mother's  eyes  had  witnessed  gave  it  a  great 
and  awful  significance  to-night.  It  was  almost  like  a 
warning,  as  if,  on  the  eve  of  something  terrible — some 
fearful  springing-up  of  the  beast  that  lurked  in  him,  uncon- 
quered,  and  had  sprung  out  once  with  such  havoc  at  Ba- 
dajoz — she  had  whispered  a  warning  to  her  son.  What 
does  go  on  behind  the  scenes  of  this  mystery  play,  the 
world?  George  had  imagination,  and  it  had  fed  on  the 
experiences  of  life  in  other  climes  and  under  strange  con- 
ditions. He  had  shaken  off,  gradually,  the  harness  of  the 


•THE    SUN     SANK     IN     JUST     LIKE     THAT— SUDDENLY,     GEORGE— ON     THE 
NIGHT  YOUR   MOTHER   DIED." 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  151 

old  creeds  in  which  his  forefathers  had  worked;  but  there 
were  left  mystery  and  wonder;  in  tense  moments  he  had 
this  strange  feeling  of  watching  eyes  and  whisperings,  of 
onlookers  ready  to  warn,  to  feel  grief,  to  be  gladdened  by 
resistance  to  prompting  evil. 

"We'll  walk  a  little  way  along  the  downs,"  said  Bess, 
"and  then  I  suppose  we  must  go  in." 

Go  in?  Take  up  the  thread  of  life  again,  if  John  came 
back  successful?  But  that  was  impossible;  he  could  never 
live  on  as  he  had  been  living.  The  climax  in  their  fortunes, 
the  climax  in  his  life,  had  come  together.  His  hopes  now 
were  bound  up  in  ruin.  From  day  to  day  he  had  gone  on, 
knowing  that  his  only  safety — her  safety,  John's  safety- 
lay  in  his  tearing  himself  away  at  any  cost.  The  greatest 
courage  lies  often  in  the  daring  to  run  away.  He  had  made 
up  his  mind  to  fight  this  terrible  temptation  where  he  was, 
yet  knew  that  some  day  it  must  prove  too  strong  for  him, 
that  already  it  held  possession  of  his  thoughts  night  and 
day,  day  and  night.  And  now  his  only  hope  of  victory  lay 
not  in  resistance  but  in  flight.  "Now,  now,"  an  inner 
voice  urged  him.  "Go  back  to  the  inn — take  her  back — 
go  away — keep  yourself  from  sight  and  sound  of  her " 

Oh,  he  couldn't!  No,  he  must  enjoy  each  bitter-sweet 
moment — but  innocently  still;  he  could  never  wrong  John 
— poor  old  John,  in  trouble  already,  and  so  staunch  a 
friend  and  brother. 

What  reckless  madness  possessed  Bess?  She  burst  into 
snatches  of  song — ah,  how  sweet  her  voice — she  ran  ahead 
mischievously,  calling  George  to  follow,  to  see  this,  to  see 
that,  laughing  softly  when  they  startled  two  lovers  under 
a  tangled  bush,  pointing  out  the  lights  of  ships  at  sea — a 
riding-light  here,  like  a  tiny  silver  bell  hung  on  the  taper- 
ing mast;  a  red  light  glimmering  there;  a  green,  flashing 
suddenly  out  of  blue  space.  The  sea  had  changed  now — 
sea  and  sky  both,  and  sands — to  the  deep  violet  of  perfect 


152  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

autumn  night.  Their  footsteps  made  scarcely  a  sound  on 
the  soft  turf  of  the  downs.  She  raced  down  a  little  hollow, 
George  following;  he  heard  the  soft  swish  of  long  grasses 
and  clover  brushing  her  ankles,  the  snap  of  bramble  and 
sound  of  crushed-down  dock  and  hogweed;  the  violet  gulf 
of  night  showed  through  a  dark,  nodding  fringe  on  the 
cliff's  edge.  They  seemed  on  the  very  world's  edge;  violet 
space  before  them,  faint  sounds  of  laughter,  of  voices,  of 
toil,  followed  them  as  from  a  far-off  haunt  of  men.  They 
were  alone — alone — the  still  night  wrapping  them  in  lone- 
liness, and  only  the  quiet  eyes  of  the  stars  looked  down. 
If  Bess  would  only  be  sober  for  a  moment!  Her  mad- 
cap mood — as  if  her  love  for  him,  repressed  so  long,  were 
making  itself  manifest  unconsciously — tempted  him  al- 
most beyond  the  limits  of  resistance.  But  now  she  was. 
quiet,  walking  by  his  side,  and,  when  she  spoke,  her  voice 
was  hushed  as  if  a  thousand  ears  were  listening.  And  in- 
stantly the  old,  reckless  mood  of  good-comradeship  seemed 
less  dangerous.  Oh,  in  any  mood  he  loved  her — her  only, 
in  the  world — and  he  had  no  right!  He  tried  to  cleanse 
his  thoughts,  remembering  the  sinking  of  the  sun,  his 
mother's  death,  and,  by  a  natural  transition,  his  own 
boyhood. 

The  Lord  let  the  house  of  a  brute  to  the  soul  of  a  man, 

And  the  man  said,  "Am  I  your  debtor?" 
And  the  Lord — "  Not  yet,  but  make  it  as  clean  as  you  can, 

And  then  I  will  let  you  a  better. " 

Everyman's  task  this — to  make  clean  the  house,  to  fill 
it  with  pure  images,  true  and  honourable  thoughts.  But 
the  remembrance  of  their  childhood  again  made  George 
ache  with  longing.  She  caught  his  hand  once,  wanting 
his  help  as  she  climbed  a  slope  of  broken,  crumbling  clay; 
he  held  the  firm  little  fingers  tight  for  a  moment,  cool  and 
sweet  as  flowers;  he  clutched  her  arm — her  face  was  close 


RUNNING   HORSE  INN  153 

to  him,  he  felt  her  sweet  breath  on  his  cheeks  as  she  scram- 
bled up.  He  took  his  hand  from  her  arm  abruptly,  almost 
roughly.  A  bat  circled  round  them,  a  streak  of  darker 
night  broken  from  the  dusk;  moths  fluttered  from  the 
brambles.  She  looked  moth-like  too,  in  her  white  muslin, 
showing  so  faintly  like  a  spectral  shape. 

"Let's  sit  down,  Bess,"  he  said,  huskily. 

"Well,  just  for  a  minute.     But  isn't  the  grass  damp?" 

They  bent  down  to  feel,  and  his  hand  brushed  against 
hers  as  they  groped  in  the  dim  light  among  the  grass. 

"It's  only  cool  to  the  touch,  I  think."  His  hands  were 
burning. 

She  sat  down,  impetuously,  as  in  all  her  movements; 
George  lay  beside  her. 

"No,  I  don't  think  it's  really  very  damp,"  said  Bess. 
"We've  been  through  some  long  grass,  but  my  shoes  and 
stockings  seem  quite  dry.  Aren't  they?" 

He  touched  her  instep.    "Yes,"  he  said,  and  was  silent. 

"Oh,  isn't  it  a  lovely  night,  and  a  dear  little  place!" 
Bess  burst  out  suddenly.  "I  don't  think  I  could  bear  to 
leave  it;  could  you?  What  shall  we  do  if  we  can't  pay  our 
debts?  Shall  we  have  to  go  into  the  Blean  poorhouse? 
Is  that  where  they'll  send  us?  Or  I  suppose — I  suppose" 
(how  delightful  now  to  think  of  the  awful  possibilities  from 
which  they  had  escaped!)  "they'd  have  sent  me  there — 
they'll  send  me  there,  I  mean,  while  John  and  you  go  to 
some  great  horrid  town  like  London  to  work.  Or  would 
John  have  to  go  to  a  debtors'  gaol?  How  frightful,  poor 
old  John!  He'll  be  as  helpless  as  a  baby  if  he  has  to  do  his 
own  house- work,  or  cell- work,  do  they  call  it?  I  must 
give  him  lessons  in  making  beds,  and  Delilah  shall  teach 
him  to  scrub  floors  before  he  goes.  They  have  to  do  that 
sort  of  thing,  don't  they?" 

Her  mood  was  puzzling,  without  its  key.  The  worst 
side  of  George's  nature  found  in  it  instant  encouragement. 


154  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

He  read  into  her  words  hints  of  a  life  that  had  grown  insup- 
portable; even  the  tragic  climax  seemed  to  come  as  a 
relief.  She  was  no  longer  so  far  above  him;  she,  too,  was 
very  human.  A  terrible  combination  of  circumstances  had 
brought  about  this  marriage.  She  had  married,  he  thought, 
for  affection  rather  than  love;  had  she  known  that  he  was 
still  alive,  it  could  never  have  taken  place.  Love,  real 
love,  laughs  at  the  mutterings  of  priest  and  clerk.  Now 
that  adverse  fortune  seemed  to  be  breaking  up  their  home, 
she  could  no  longer  play  the  part  she  had  played  so  bravely. 
Poor  little  Bess!  So  human,  so  hot-blooded,  so  full,  like 
him,  of  unsatisfied  love  and  longing!  In  his  distorted 
view,  he  read  simulation  into  all  outward  signs  of  her 
fondness  for  her  husband.  A  fine  actress,  like  most  women 
on  occasion,  she  had  played  the  loving  wife  before  spec- 
tators, with  distaste  and  weariness  at  heart. 

"I  wonder -how  many  times  we've  been  up  here  together, 
George ? "  she  said,  suddenly.  "Can  you  remember  the  first 
time  we  saw  each  other?" 

"  Tis  so  long  back  I  can't,  Bess,"  said  George.  "But 
ever  so  long  ago  I  remember  going  with  mother  to  the 
farm,  and  you  were  in  the  farmyard — a  little  dark-haired 
lass  all  dimpled  arms  and  legs,  seemed  to  me.  You  were 
looking  at  the  fowls,  and  such  big  eyes  you  had.  'What 
are  you  looking  at  them  so  hard  for,  Bess?'  said  mother. 
'Why,  Pinion  said  if  I  gave  them  any  more  corn  they'd 
burst,'  you  said,  only  you  couldn't  say  's'  properly  then, 
because  you'd  knocked  a  tooth  out — 'Pinion  thaid  if  I 
gave  them  any  more  corn  they'd  burtht.'  ' 

"Oh,  I  know,"  said  Bess,  laughing;  "I  don't  remember, 
but  mother's  told  me  heaps  of  times.  So  I'd  given  them 
some  more  to  see  if  what  Pinion  said  was  true." 

"We  must  ha'  been  pretty  young,  though,  when  you 
came  down  and  paddled,  and  minded  our  clothes  while 
we  bathed." 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  155 

"Yes,  but  I  remember  that.  I  know  how  angry  I  got 
with  John  one  day  because  he  wouldn't  talk — he  looked 
so  solemn;  and  I'd  quarrelled  with  you,  and  walked  with 
him  instead,  and  never  a  word  would  he  say,  and  seemed 
half-frightened  of  me  when  I  took  his  arm,  and  at  last  I 
went  off  home  in  a  huff,  all  by  myself." 

She  chattered  about  these  old  memories;  about  long 
Sunday  afternoons  when  they  made  daisy  chains  on  these 
downs,  and  picked  poppies  and  clover  and  great  sheaves 
of  grasses — timothy  and  foxtail  and  quake  grass,  and 
sweet  vernal  that  scents  the  meadows  at  haymaking.  She 
reminded  him  of  their  long  tramps  behind  the  soldiers 
marching  from  the  landing-place  near  the  Ship  to  the  great 
barracks  at  Canterbury;  of  bands  and  bugle-horns  on  the 
old  camp-field  when  all  England  thought  Boney  and  his 
French  were  coming;  and  of  their  childish  play  at  "French 
and  English,"  when  John,  showing  less  acquiescence  than 
usual,  stoutly  refused  to  take  the  side  of  France.  "Oh,  I 
don't  think  there's  another  place  in  the  world  like  this," 
cried  Bess  at  last,  recalling  the  many  links  that  bound  them 
to  these  ancient  downs,  which  have  heard  the  patter  of 
the  feet  of  so  many  generations  of  children,  the  laughter 
and  voices  of  so  many,  flung  by  winds  now  dead  to  the  sea 
that  remains. 

"There  are  other  places  as  beautiful,  though,  Bess," 
George  said,  suddenly. 

"Are  there?     I  suppose  there  are.     And  yet " 

"Heaps  and  heaps.  Why,  you've  never  been  more'n 
fifteen  miles  away  from  home." 

"Oh,  I  have.    I've  been  as  far  as  Maidstone!" 

"Maidstone?  That's  no  journey."  He  wished  he  could 
clear  his  voice  of  its  huskiness;  he  was  speaking  with  effort, 
and  all  the  time  his  head  was  throbbing  with  a  thousand 
wild  thoughts,  merged  in  one  fierce  desire  that  was  rapidly 
mastering  him. 


156  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

"But — oh,  I  say,  you  don't  know  how  great  and  glorious 
the  world  is.  This  place  is  all  right,  but  it's  nothing — if 
it  wasn't  for  what  we  remember — nothing  to  all  the  places 
I've  seen  and  heard  about  from  other  fellows  in  the  Rifles. 
London,  now,  first  of  all,  you  call  it  a  horrid  place,  but 
it's  not  so  bad.  Let  me  see.  I'll  try  and  tell  you.  There's 
the  river  first — the  old,  winding  river — and  the  crowded 
bridges,  and  the  great  ships  bringing  in  cargoes  from  all 
the  world  over — those  ships  you  see  sailing  far  out  along 
Channel;  but  they're  great  homes  of  men,  like  floating 
houses  when  you  see  'em  close  to.  And  there  are  the  big 
wharves  and  warehouses  alongside,  and  queer  little  steps, 
steep  enough  and  slimy  enough  to  break  anybody's  neck, 
and  rare  old  houses  that  look  as  if  they  were  toppling  down 
into  the  water,  and  then,  my  word,  the  state  barges  glit- 
terin'  with  gold!  There's  the  Tower,  too,  where  they  used 
to  chop  off  great  noblemen's  heads " 

"Ugh!"  said  Bess,  with  a  little  shudder,  "I  don't  want 
to  see  that.  At  Maidstone  we  got  mixed  up  with  the 
crowd  on  Penenden  Heath,  one  day,  when  there  was  a 
hanging.  I  shut  my  eyes  when  I  knew  what  was  happen- 
ing. 'Twas  a  woman  who'd  poisoned  her  husband;  but 
when  I  looked  through  my  fingers  to  see  if  all  was  over, 
she  was  just  spinning,  and  shaking  like  a  bird  that's  shot. 
It  made  me  feel — oh,  awful!  I  couldn't  touch  any  food 
for  hours." 

"Well,  I  reckon  she  deserved  it,"  said  George.  "She 
needn't  have  lived  with  him  if  she  didn't  like  it.  Why 
didn't  she  run  away?  But  you'd  like  to  see  the  Beefeaters 
in  their  old,  ancient  uniforms.  And  Carlton  House,  and 
the  old  generals  and  admirals  with  all  their  medals  and 
cocked  hats,  and  the  chairs  and  coaches  with  ladies  in  'em 
covered  with  diamonds  and  pearls,  in  silks,  and  ostrich 
plumes " 

"Yes,  I  should  like  that." 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  157 

"And  the  links  flashing  on  it  all — like  Cinderella's  ball 
at  night — and  the  fine  ladies  and  gentlemen  walking  in 
the  Mall,  and  the  shops " 

"Oh,  yes." 

"Rare  fine  shops  in  London;  and  the  theatres — dresses 
and  jewels  again,  and  lights  and  dancing,  and  music  and 
songs " 

He  could  see  the  glistening  of  her  eyes  in  starlight. 

"And  wouldn't  you  like  to  see  those  other  countries, 
too,  the  great  mountains  I've  seen  with  the  snow  on  top 
of  'em,  and  clouds  and  houses  and  men  and  cattle  and  fir- 
trees  looking  like  toys  in  the  valleys  down  below?  And 
Lisbon — and  the  orange  groves  on  the  hills,  where  the 
fruit  hangs  like  lanterns  all  lit  up?  And  the  Moorish  pal- 
aces at  Cintra,  where  you  can  sit  perched  over  the  top  of 
the  world  and  look  down  on  roofs,  and  towers,  and  woods, 
and — and  gorges  cram-full  of  ferns?  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
see  the  village  dances  at  night,  and  the  long  tropillas  of 
mules,  and  the  fireflies  in  the  forests,  and  the  lizards  as 
bright  as  jewels — wouldn't  you  like  to  see  all  that?  Ah, 
but  I  can't  tell  you  a  quarter — not  a  fiftieth — of  all  I've 

seen;  and  as  for  what  I've  heard  from  other  soagers " 

He  made  a  gesture  of  despair.  "Let  me  think.  There's 
Montevideo " 

He  went  on,  speaking  softly,  imagination  glowing  like 
a  hot  coal  breathed  upon,  as  he  spoke  of  what  men  who 
had  been  with  Whitelocke's  ill-fated  expedition  had  told 
him.  George  made  her  see  as  she  had  never  seen  before 
the  vastness  and  beauty  of  the  world.  He  opened  doors 
for  her — showed  her  now  a  South  American  forest  blazing 
in  sunshine,  monkeys  chattering,  bright  parrots  scream- 
ing, gemmed  humming-birds  not  a  finger  long  sparkling 
through  the  air;  matted  networks  of  lianas,  gorgeous  or- 
chids, great  rivers  flowing  through  overhanging  trees  and 
crowded  jungle;  and  now  parched  Africa,  with  its  staring 


158  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

white  cities  of  the  north,  its  aloes,  its  bronzed  desert  gyp- 
sies, its  camels,  its  weird  and  barbaric  rites.  Then,  like  a 
breath  of  fresh  air,  little  Denmark  took  the  place  of  those 
burning  tropic  lands.  He  told  her  what  he  had  heard  from 
Riflemen  who  had  been  at  Copenhagen,  and  spoke  of  the 
blue  Belts,  the  blue  Sound,  the  tiny,  trim  villages  with 
their  church  spires  piercing  the  sky,  the  beech  woods 
on  its  shores,  Hamlet's  ancient  castle  looking  towards  the 
misty  Swedish  coast-line.  And,  a  moment  later,  she  was 
passing  little  Porto  Santo,  and  saw  Funchal  Bay,  with  its 
palms,  its  coloured  villas,  its  peaks  rising  into  rosy  sunset 
clouds,  the  many-coloured  boats  jostling  round  the  trans- 
ports, the  tawny  bodies  of  the  diving  boys,  the  swaying 
heaps  of  basketware,  the  rich  hues  of  fruits  and  flowers. 

Bess  listened  breathlessly  to  all  this.  George  seemed 
carried  away  as  he  put  all  these  scenes  into  painted  words, 
making  them  vivid  for  her  as  well. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  see  it?"  he  cried,  at  last,  almost 
gasping  with  the  delight  of  all. 

"Oh,  I  would — I  would  dearly."  She  spoke  dreamily, 
then  suddenly  seemed  to  waken.  "But  I  can't,  so  I  must 
just  think  of  them." 

"You  can't?     Why  not,  Bess?"  he  whispered. 

"  Why  not  ?     Why,  of  course— 

"I  remember,"  he  went  on,  interrupting  her,  "when  I 
was  a  boy,  how  I  used  to  look  out  over  this  sea — yes,  from 
where  we  are  now,  Bess — and  watch  the  white  sails,  and 
want  to  follow  them.  You  know  that  sailor  who  came  to 
the  inn,  ever  so  long  ago?  I  can  see  him  now  sitting  in 
the  corner  of  the  taproom,  with  his  blue  jacket  and  gilt 
buttons,  and  ear-rings  and  shiny  hat,  and  the  great  silver 
buckles  in  his  shoes,  and  gay  ribbons  sewed  in  his  jacket 
and  red  waistcoat;  oh,  I  can  see  him  now,  just  as  if  he 
was  here!  Think  of  it!  This  sea's  the  great  road  that 
leads  everywhere — everywhere — to  all  those  places  and  a 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  159 

thousand  more.  Oh,  many  a  night  after  that  sailor  came  I 
couldn't  sleep  for  aching  with  the  thought  of  all  there  was 
going  on  in  the  world;  and  the  old  sea's  voice  was  always 
calling,  Come  and  see;  come  and  see.  .  .  .  So  I  went,  at 
last.  But  I've  seen  nothing  yet — nothing.  When  I  came 
back,  I  thought  I'd  want  no  more  travelling,  but  the  salt's 
in  my  blood,  I  think,  and  soon — and  then,"  he  went  on, 
abruptly,  "you  had  married  John.  Oh,  Bess,  why  didn't 
you  wait?  Why  didn't  you  wait  and  make  sure?  Ah, 
we'd  have  been  so  happy " 

"George!"  She  sprang  up,  a  great  surprise,  a  great  ten- 
derness, in  her  voice.  "Oh,  I  didn't  know;  I  thought — 
oh,  surely  you've  thought  no  more  of  that!  We  were  only 
boy  and  girl.  And  you've  seen  so  much,  and  so  many 
women  over  there,  and  talked  about  them  to  me " 

"Yes,  yes,  to  make  you  and  John  think  I  didn't  care. 
But  now — oh,  it  was  bound  to  come  out,  Bess;  it's  been 
like  a  great  fire  burning  me  up.  And  you  think  I  haven't 
cared?  Why  did  I  stay?  With  the  world  still  calling — but 
I  cared  nothing  for  all  that  without  you." 

"Oh,  George!"  A  little  shiver  at  the  tragedy  of  his 
return  ran  through  her.  In  the  violet  night  his  features 
were  hidden,  but  she  saw  the  glitter  of  his  eyes  in  starlight. 

"God!"  he  said,  almost  fiercely,  through  clenched  teeth, 
"haven't  I  suffered?  Do  you  think  I  haven't  suffered?  It's 
been  hell,  I  tell  you;  but  I  couldn't  go.  And  I've  heard 
John  calling  at  night,  up  the  stairs,  'Bess!  Bess!'  and  you 
answering;  and  I've  heard  the  handle  of  your  door  click, 
and  the  door  shut  you  in.  Hour  after  hour  I've  lain  awake, 
thinking  that  if  I'd  come  back  just  a  day  sooner  I'd  have 
been  in  his  place.  On  winter  evenings,  when  you  and  he 
have  been  sitting  round  the  fire,  and  I've  come  in  suddenly — 
when  you  and  he  came  out  here  last  thing  at  night,  and  I 
heard  your  voices  and  your  footsteps  and  your  laughing 
die  away  and  come  again,  and  the  sharp  wind's  blown  you 


160  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

in,  all  red-cheeked,  and  banged  the  door  on  your  very 
skirts,  do  you  think  I  didn't  care?  Forget,  Bess?  Me  for- 
get? I  can't  stop  my  heart  beating  by  telling  it.  And 
John  made  me  kiss  you.  ...  I  didn't  mean  to  speak, 

but  it's  all  out  now.  And  you — you "  he  dropped  his 

voice  and  bent  close  to  her  ear,  and  when  it  brushed  against 
his  lips,  thrilling  him  through  and  through,  he  whispered. 

"What  do  you  mean,  George?"  she  cried,  stepping  back, 
frightened,  indignant,  half  sobbing. 

In  his  mad  infatuation,  he  took  her  protest  as  the  con- 
fusion due  to  a  long-hidden  but  now  discovered  secret. 

"Oh,  I  know.  Do  you  think  I  couldn't  tell — when  your 
eyes  brightened  at  meeting  me,  when  you  were  so  happy, 
though  you  knew  the  game  was  up  here,  and  we've  to  turn 
elsewhere  even  for  bread?  Oh,  we've  both  tried  to  be  true 
to  John,  but  there's  no  fighting  against  love.  We've  to 
take  our  lives  in  our  own  hands  now,  Bess;  we  must. 
There  are  money  and  fame  to  be  got  from  the  world  yet, 
and,  by  God!  I'll  get  them  for  us  two!  I've  a  few  pounds 
left;  we'll  go  to  London.  I  know  just  what  to  do.  Look 
at  France,  look  at  Boney  and  the  kings  he  made;  do  you 
think  there's  no  ladder  like  that  in  England?  Not  in  the 
army — I  found  that  out — but  among  the  people;  the  people 
who  are  starving,  and  yet  have  to  pay  Germans,  and  keep 
their  mad  old  King  in  his  palaces,  and  pay  for  the  Regent's 
wines  and  mistresses  and  jewels.  You  know  what  the 
Watsons  said;  you  know  what's  going  on  all  over  England. 
They're  only  waiting  for  a  strong  man — a  leader.  Bess,  I'll 
be  the  man.  I  know  it;  I  feel  it  here.  When  I  was  a  lit- 
tle boy,  you  know  how  I  was  always  captain  or  king  among 
the  others.  Boney  was  only  a  poor  lieutenant  when  he  was 
my  age.  .  .  .  Come  to  London  with  me,  Bess,  and  share 
it  all.  Come.  I'm  calling  you  to  do  a  brave  thing,  I 
know.  It'll  hurt  John  at  first — at  first — but  we'll  never 
forgive  ourselves  if  we're  afraid  to  take  our  happiness." 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  161 

Bess  listened  silently,  but  shivering  a  little  now  and  then, 
to  his  mad  torrent  of  words.  It  was  a  revelation  of  things 
not  even  dreamed  of.  As  one  lifts  an  ancient  stone,  and 
finds  beneath  it  a  scurry  of  blind,  repulsive  insects  that 
have  sheltered  there  from  the  light,  so  now  these  thoughts, 
motives,  lusts,  ambitions,  not  even  suspected,  showed  in 
all  their  ugliness  and  squalor. 

She  caught  suddenly  at  the  reference  to  her  husband. 
"You  say,  George,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  so  calm  that  it  sur- 
prised herself,  for  she  was  trembling  all  over,  "that  this 
would — would  hurt  John  a  little.  What " 

"At  first,  I  said;  yes,  at  first.  But  that's  better  than 
living  a  lie — fairer  to  him,  too.  If  I'd  married  you,  and 
you  loved  John  better,  I'd — I'd  rather  it  came  out.  A 
priest's  gabble  and  a  few  lines  of  writing  don't  make  the 
marriage,  Bess;  love  does  that.  People  cramped  up  all 
their  lives  in  a  little  place  like  this " 

"Get  strange  ideas  of  honour  and  duty?"  Bess  could 
not  repress  the  question. 

"Well,  they  do,"  said  George,  too  intent  to  notice  the 
irony.  "What's  church  marriage,  after  all?  Who  made 
it?  Abraham  and  Isaac  didn't  bother  about  that.  Who 
started  it?  But  Adam  and  Eve  were  made  for  each  other; 
we  know  that.  Look  at  the  birds,  the  animals.  They  choose 
their  mates,  and  there's  no  parrot  chatter  or  monkey  talk 
to  bind  'em  up  so  that  they  can't  get  loose,  liking  or  no 
liking.  I  don't  care  about  that;  and  in  London  nobody '11 
know.  I  do  care  about  hurting  John — poor  old  John — 
but  I've  thought  out  everything,  and  it's  kindest  in  the 
long  run.  He'll  suffer,  of  course;  but  why  should  two  suffer 
all  their  lives  instead — you  and  I?  It's  a  case  out  of  com- 
mon." He  paced  to  and  fro  on  the  soft  turf.  "It'd  be 
different  if  you'd  married  him  with  your  eyes  open,  know- 
ing me  alive.  We've  got  ourselves  to  think  of  as  well  as 

John.    Oh,  Bess " 

11 


162  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"Don't  touch  me!"  she  cried,  starting  back.  "Wait 
and  listen  to  what  I've  got  to  say.  I've  listened  to  you; 
oh,  I  oughtn't  to  have  listened — I  ought  to  have  stopped 
you  at  once,  but  I  hoped  at  first  you  were  only  jesting. 
You've  made  a  terrible — oh,  a  cruel  and  awful  mistake, 
George.  Because — because — I  love  John,  and  I  always 

have  loved  him,  and — and "  Her  self-control  broke 

down  suddenly.  "Oh,  I'm  going  home,  I'm  going  home," 
she  said,  with  a  sudden  choking  sob,  and,  putting  her  hands 
to  her  eyes  to  brush  back  the  starting  tears,  she  began  to 
hurry  down  the  slope  towards  the  hamlet. 

George  was  taken  completely  by  surprise.  He  had  ex- 
pected some  reluctance,  but  not  in  any  form  like  this. 
He  flattered  himself  on  knowledge  of  women's  ways,  gleaned 
from  the  wars,  and  yet  was  puzzled.  Could  he  have  been 
mistaken?  Her  distress  urged  him  to  follow  her,  to  take 
her  in  his  arms,  to  shield  her  from  the  world  with  his 
strength — and  yet  her  cry  that  her  love  for  John  was  un- 
changing held  him  back. 

The  white  frock,  swishing  softly  against  the  grasses, 
glimmered  through  the  violet  dusk  like  wandering  mist — 
like  the  silky  wings  of  moths  fluttering  in  the  brambles. 
Her  little  sobs,  very  pitiful,  reached  his  heart — but  not 
reproachfully,  though  she  cried  for  the  loss  of  something 
dearer  than  success  or  gold. 

For  a  few  seconds  he  listened  to  the  gentle  sobbing,  the 
far-off  murmur  of  the  incoming  sea,  the  faint  sound  of 
muslin  brushing  the  tall  grasses,  and  little  feet  breaking 
dock  and  briar. 

All  else  in  the  world  was  silent. 

"Bess!"  he  gasped,  and  hurried  after  her. 


CHAPTER   XII 

"DESS,  don't  be  silly— don't  cry,"  he  gasped.     "Oh, 

D  don't  cry,  dear.  You  know  things  can't  go  on 
any  longer  like  they  were;  you'd  only  grow  to  hate  John; 
you  will,  if  you  don't  decide  the  right  way  now.  Think 
of  all  the  years  ahead  of  us.  I  love  you  all  the  more  for 
feeling  the  break;  7  feel  that,  too,  and  I  wish  to  God " 

She  shook  herself  free  from  his  arm,  and  turned,  facing 
him.  Had  it  been  light,  the  rising  colour,  the  flashing  eyes 
still  wet  with  tears,  the  bosom  heaving  with  indignation, 
might  have  warned  him.  But  he  still  thought  that  conven- 
tion— so  much  more  to  a  woman  than  a  man — and  a  nat- 
ural reluctance  to  cause  John  so  much  pain  held  her  back. 
She  was  woman  all  over,  Bess;  how  like  woman's  way,  he 
thought,  to  go  to  the  very  frontier  of  submission — to  coax 
him  on  with  pretty  words,  and  smiles,  and  glances — and 
then  to  start  back,  frightened  at  the  final  step.  A  man's 
hand  was  wanted  now  to  draw  her  over. 

"Do  you  want  to  make  me  hate  you,  George?"  she  said, 
speaking  fast,  in  a  voice  strained  and  excited.  "Because 
you  will — oh,  you  will!  You  must  be  mad  to  talk  to  me 
like  that.  John  will  be  back  to-morrow " 

"And  you'll  tell  him?  And  what  can  you  say — except 
that  you  love  me,  and  I  love  you,  and  we're  sorry  love's 
stronger  than  we  are?"  He  dropped  his  voice.  "Why, 
we'll  be  in  London  town  to-morrow — miles  of  green  fields 
between  us  and  here — together  in  London.  Ah,  Bess!" 

He  sighed  with  aching  longing;  passion  born  of  night 
and  silence  and  the  abandonment  of  long  restraint  mas- 
tered him,  and  he  caught  her  to  him  with  a  sudden  vio- 
lence that  left  her  breathless.  In  his  body  some  unknown 
spirit  of  evil  seemed  to  have  taken  its  abode,  speaking 

163 


164  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

through  his  lips,  acting  through  his  limbs;  he  had  become 
wholly  unfamiliar,  wholly  dangerous.  The  change  was 
terrible,  like  some  spell  of  madness  altering  out  of  knowl- 
edge one  loved  and  trusted  for  long  years. 

"Oh,  leave  go  of  me,  let  me  go,"  she  cried.  "I  don't 
love  you — I  never  did — not  even  when  you  went  away 
and  made  me  promise  to  wait.  I  was  only  a  silly  girl  then, 
and  you  pressed  me  so — and  I  was  afraid  you  might  be 
killed — and  John  didn't  seem  to  care  for  me — and  your 
uniform  and  all — oh,  George,  I  shall  cry  out  if  you  don't 
let  me  go!" 

She  looked  desperately  through  the  dusk  for  help,  while 
he  kissed  her  hotly,  and  clutched  one  of  her  little  hands 
in  his,  and  pressed  her  to  him  as  if  he  could  kindle  some 
answering  fire.  She  was  inert,  passive;  it  was  her  most 
effectual  defence.  Two  lovers  rose  out  of  the  gloom,  and 
passed  them,  and  began  to  fade  almost  as  soon  as  they  were 
seen. 

"George,"  she  gasped,  "there's  Jim  Homersham  and 
Peg  Hardwick;  I'll  call  out  to  them  if  you  don't  leave  off 
at  once.  I've  given  you  no  right  to  treat  me  so,  or  to  think 
me — to  think  me  a  woman  who  deserves  such  treatment. 
All  these  encouragements  you  say  I've  given  you  meant 
something  quite  different.  I  was  going  to  tell  you  to-mor- 
row. I  was  glad  because — no,  I  won't  tell  you  to-night,  I 
won't.  Let  me  go.  Jim!  Jim!" 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?"  George  muttered,  angrily.  "  Don't 
be  a  little  fool,  Bess.  I'd  like  to  see  Homersham  inter- 
fere  " 

"Hullo!"  cried  a  voice  from  the  darkness,  cheerful,  yet 
a  little  sheepish. 

George  let  go  of  Bess,  with  a  muttered  oath;  instantly 
she  broke  away  from  him,  and  ran  down  on  to  the  shingle- 
strewn  road,  where  the  lights  in  the  cottages  showed  like 
friendly  eyes.  George  stood  alone,  angry,  baffled,  at  a  loss. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  165 

"Hullo!  Who's  that  wants  me?"  cried  young  Homer- 
sham,  coming  back  with  Peg  hanging  on  his  arm. 

"Only  Mrs.  Kennett  saying  good-night,"  said  George, 
sulkily. 

"Oh!  Good-night.  Good-night,  Mrs.  Kennett!"  he  cried 
after  her,  and  was  answered  from  the  distance. 

George  followed  slowly.  On  the  downs  they  had  owned 
the  whole  night  of  stars.  Here  the  sights  and  sounds  of 
everyday  life  would  be  about  them  again;  the  walls  and 
the  doors  had  ears.  He  laughed  a  little,  uneasy  laugh. 
Had  he  been  mistaken?  Unless  he  carried  out  his  purpose 
now,  his  position  would  make  even  friendship — even  the 
old  intercourse  that  had  been  meat  and  drink  to  him — 
impossible.  He  had  gone  too  far  for  retreat.  It  was  all 
or  nothing,  now — all  or  nothing. 

To  his  chagrin  and  bewilderment,  she  swung  open  the 
gate  of  Captain  Rockett's  cottage  and  went  in. 

He  strolled  on  to  the  inn  in  a  turmoil  of  emotions.  An 
hour,  or  little  more,  had  changed  his  world  and  hers.  The 
horses  still  plunged  up  the  shelving  shingle  from  the  col- 
lier, straining  at  their  loads,  and  falling  back  to  try  again. 
The  fire  that  some  boys  had  been  lighting  when  they  left 
the  inn,  blazed  fiercely,  sending  up  spirals  of  smoke;  sparks 
floated  star  wards  and  went  out.  Three  fishermen  before 
the  Ship  stood  chatting  in  almost  the  same  attitudes;  they 
nodded  as  he  passed. 

Delilah  watched  his  entry,  sour-visaged.  A  few  of  their 
old  customers  were  in  the  taproom.  George  tossed  off  a 
glass  of  Hollands — another — a  third — and  rapped  out  a  sav- 
age oath  at  Delilah  when  she  protested.  He  went  into  the 
parlour,  slamming  the  door.  What  was  he  to  do?  The 
battle  between  right  and  wrong  had  been  fought  out  on 
the  downs,  and  was  over.  Whether  she  loved  him  now  or 
not,  his  purpose  was  fixed.  It  would  be  useless  to  call  at 
the  Rocketts'.  But  he  went  out  again,  hoping  to  meet  her 


166  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

as  she  returned.  Would  she  sleep  there?  Had  she  said 
anything? 

He  waited  outside  the  cottage.  The  candles  flung  the 
shadows  of  Mrs.  Rockett,  Bess,  and  Captain  Rockett  on 
the  blind.  At  last  the  door  opened. 

"I  shan't  be  long,  Martha,"  sang  out  Rockett's  cheer- 
ful voice.  "Just  going  to  walk  home  with  this  young  lady, 
by  special  request.  Ever  tell  you  about  that  dwarf  in  the 
circus,  Bess,  I  beared  tell  of  on  the  Spanish  Main?  The 
Inquisitors  got  hold  of  him,  and  clapped  him  in  the  rack. 
The  man  who  told  me  said  it  was  pitiful  to  hear  him 
screaming,  'I  won't  be  long,  I  won't  be  long!' — and  every 
turn  saw  his  bread-and-butters  wanishing."  He  tucked 
his  arm  in  Bess's,  and,  waving  his  hand  to  his  wife,  trotted 
off  towards  the  Running  Horse.  George,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  wall,  was  unseen.  He  followed  therm  at  a  distance. 
Rockett  kept  up  a  chatter,  merry  enough,  all  the  way  to 
the  inn  door. 

George  waited  until  the  Captain  had  had  a  glass,  and 
rolled  back  homewards,  humming  the  tune  "Drops  of 
Brandy"  as  he  hurried  along  the  front.  George  remem- 
bered the  words  sailors  sang  to  that  tune,  when  the  anchor 
was  being  weighed  or  grog  served  on  board  ship: 

"And  Johnny  shall  have  a  new  bonnet 

And  Johnny  shall  go  to  the  fair, 
And  Johnny  shall  have  a  blue  ribbon, 

To  tie  up  his  bonny  brown  hair. 
And  why  should  I  not  love  Johnny? 

And  why  should  not  Johnny  love  me? 
And  why  should  I  not  love  Johnny 

As  well  as  another  bodie?" 

The  most  popular  song  in  the  King's  navy,  and  on  land  as 
well  as  sea,  only  a  guilty  conscience  could  attach  sinister 
significance  to  Captain  Rockett's  choice.  George  waited 
in  the  stable-yard,  listening  until  the  last  strains  died  away 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  167 

in  the  distance.  Had  Bess  said  anything?  Did  Rockett 
know?  If  so,  there  was  now  another  reason  compelling 
him  to  leave  the  inn — with  Bess  or  without  her.  He 
clenched  his  fists.  "By  God,  she  shall  come,  she  must 
come!"  he  muttered. 

He  entered  the  parlour.  Supper  was  set,  bread  and 
cheese  and  ale  and  some  cold  pudding.  Perhaps  Bess  was 
taking  off  her  things.  After  what  had  happened,  he  looked 
forward  uneasily  to  the  moment  when  he  should  see  her 
face  in  the  lamplight.  How  would  she  act?  Be  angry, 
and  reproach  him?  Be  cold  and  silent?  That  at  first,  he 
thought.  But  if  she  had  loved  him — as,  in  his  monstrous 
egoism,  he  still  assured  himself — he  would  have  to  use 
every  means,  every  artifice,  every  inducement  to  win  her 
over.  Everything  was  staked  on  these  closing  hours  of  the 
day. 

George  drew  the  red  curtains  closer,  and  moved  the 
lamp  so  that  no  shadows  should  be  seen.  After  some  min- 
utes he  opened  the  door  into  the  taproom.  "Where — 
where's  your  missus,  'Lilah?"  he  asked. 

"You  needn't  wait  for  her.    She's  gone  to  bed." 

"Gone  to  bed?" 

"Yes.     She's  got  a  headache." 

He  went  back  into  the  parlour.  Gone  to  bed?  He  had 
frightened  her,  no  doubt.  Convention  meant  so  much  to 
women.  If  he  could  only  open  her  eyes  to  the  wideness  of 
the  world,  its  many  creeds  and  customs,  the  things  that 
were  done  every  day,  and  thought  nothing  of!  He  remem- 
bered how  lightly  men  had  spoken  in  the  barrack-room 
and  by  the  bivouac  fires  of  just  such  deeds  as  he  was  urging 
her  to.  He  knew  that  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  loved 
him — always  had  loved  him.  But  she  was  afraid. 

By  daylight  she  would  be  braver;  he  would  see  her  early 
in  the  morning;  they  could  be  out  and  away  before  John's 
return. 


168  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

He  ate  his  supper  with  little  appetite,  straining  his  ears 
all  the  time  for  sounds  overhead.  At  last  he  pushed  back 
his  plate,  and,  filling  his  pipe,  went  into  the  taproom.  He 
poured  out  a  stiff  glass  of  spirits,  and  sat  in  a  corner,  moody 
and  silent,  listening  to  the  talk  of  the  night's  visitors. 
Pinion  and  another  rustic  were  wrangling  over  the  rival 
merits  of  Suffolk  ploughs  and  the  old-fashioned  turnwrists. 
How  could  Bess  choose  the  intolerable  monotony  of  a  life 
like  this!  Talk  turned  on  "wheat  seasoning" — sowing 
corn;  and  Stebbings,  who  had  taken  a  leading  part  at  the 
great  Canterbury  meeting  against  the  Corn  Bill  in  1815, 
found  an  opportunity  of  turning  the  topic  to  the  present 
state  of  England.  He  drew  his  chief  enjoyment  from  oppo- 
sition and  discontent,  and  under  the  Regency  had  all  the 
material  for  a  happy  life  close  at  hand. 

"We  want  a  Cromwell,  we  do!"  he  wound  up,  at  last, 
nodding  fiercely. 

"Ay,  ay,  we  do  that,  Must'  Stebbings,"  wheezed  old 
Pinion,  ingratiatingly.  "My  son,  as  went  to  Ameriky,  was 
a-telling  me  about  him,  and  a  fine  feller  he  must  ha'  been, 
to  be  sure,  finding  a  girt  new  country  when  things  got  too 
oncomfortable  at  home." 

"You're  mixing  him  up  with  Columbius!"  said  Steb- 
bings, "though  it'll  come  to  us  all  pilgrim-fathering  before 
long.  They  want  some  one  to  larn  them  history,  these 
law-makers  of  ours.  That's  what  I  said  to  young  Deedes, 
when  he  was  humming  and  hawing  on  the  hustings.  '  You 
go  to  school  agen  and  get  eddicated,'  says  I.  Those  were 
my  words.  '  Get  eddicated,  and  when  you've  got  some  one 
to  larn  you  history,  then  I'll  listen  to  you.'  Those  were 
my  words." 

"Terrible  bold  words  to  use,  Must'  Stebbings,"  said  Pin- 
ion, admiringly.  "He,  he — ho,  ho,  ho!"  His  laugh  broke  off 
in  a  wheezy  fit  of  coughing.  "My  wig,"  he  gasped,  "I've 
a  terrifyin'  cough.  Ale's  the  only  thing'll  stop  the  ruttle 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  169 

keeping  me  awake  at  night,  and  that's  why  I  drinks  it." 
He  peered  suggestively  into  his  empty  tankard,  and  Steb- 
bings  took  the  hint. 

"What-for  a  man  was  Deedes,  now,  Must'  Stebbings?" 
asked  another  labourer. 

"Him?  Oh,  a  King  John's  man,  six  score  to  the  hun- 
dred, as  the  saying  goes.  A  little  feller,  not  half  my  age 
neither — and  him  to  make  rules  and  taxes  for  me!" 

"The  best  'lection  I  ever  see,"  said  Pinion,  his  eyes 
twinkling,  "was  forty-dree  year  ago — no,  forty-fower.  My 
nable,  I  never  see  such  lashons  of  beer,  before  or  since !  I 
helped  the  buffs  first,  a  did,  but  they  wouldn't  give  me  not 
a  merciful  thing,  they  wouldn't;  so  I  went  to  the  blue  man 
— he'd  lived  in  the  Indies  most  of  his  life,  he  had.  Purple- 
faced  old  feller,  he  was,  with  no  more  breath  than  what 
I've  got  now;  and  they — they — I  can't  think  of  the  word." 

"  'Lectedhim?" 

"  No,  no;  something  a  cock  has  on  his  legs.     Hackled — 

"Heckled  him?" 

"My  nable,  what  a  thing  it  is  to  have  eddication,  Must' 
Stebbings!  Ay,  they  heckled  him  terrible,  and  he  never 
couldn't  answer  them,  'cause  of  not  knowing  what  was 
coming.  So  he  gived  me  a  paper  with  some  things  wrote 
down  for  me  to  ax  him.  'I'll  give  you  a  crownd-piece 
now,'  he  says,  says  he,  'and  half  a  guinea  afterwards  if 
you  do  it  right.  First  of  all  I  want  you  to  say,  "  Who 
run  away  from  Plassey?" ' 

"  'I  doan't  like  to  say  that,  sir,'  says  I,  '  'cause  if  you 
did  run  away ' 

"  'You're  as  big  a  fool  as  you  look,  my  man/  says  he, 
puffing  like  a  grampious.  'You've  got  to  ax  me  that,  and 
then  I'll  say,  "The  Injuns  did,  and  I  run  after  them." 
See?  When  you  hear  me  say,  "  I'm  for  Church  and  State," 
you'll  shout  out,  "You  oughter  be  drawn  and  quar- 
tered." Then  I'll  say,  "So  I  shall,  my  friend — quartered 


170  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

at  Westminster  when  the  poll's  declared."'  'Wery  good, 
sir,'  says  I.  There  were  one  or  two  other  questions  and  an- 
swers I  forget.  Well,  I  larned  them  off  rude-heart,  every 
merciful  one  of  'em.  At  last  the  day  corned,  and  I  was  there, 
feeling  wery  happy-like  with  the  ale  inside  me;  and  I  listened 
to  one  old  feller  a-speechifyin',  and  bowing  and  scraping 
as  he  introduced  the  candidate;  and  then  I  listened  to  the 
man  hisself,  puffing  and  blowing  and  sticking  his  chest 
out — and  such  a  storm  of  cheering  and  hissing  and  yelling 
you  never  did  hear — 'twas  quite  interesting.  By  and  by 
the  heckling  begun.  Wery  interesting  that  was,  too.  He 
got  rare  and  flustered;  but  he  seemed  to  cheer  up  when 
he  see  Bill  Gimblett,  who'd  told  me  he  was  on  the  same 
job  as  me,  hollerin'  out  at  him.  'Speak  up  there,'  says  he, 
turning  to  the  corner  where  Bill  was  standing — 'cause  some 
one  else  was  shouting  at  him,  too,  and  Bill's  was  a  wery 
little  small  woice.  'What's  that  bottle-nosed  rascal  say- 
ing? Don't  be  put  out?  No,  gentlemen,  I'll  be  put  in.' 
Before  people  had  begun  to  laugh,  old  Billie  pipes  out 
sharp  as  you  likes,  in  that  squeaky  little  small  woice  of 
his'n,  'Yes,  in  gaol.'  You  should  ha'  seen  the  Colonel's 
face.  He!  he!  I  knew  at  once  the  buffs  had  got  hold  of 
Billie.  And  there  was  the  blue  man — purple  he  was  then, 
though — busting  to  say  Billie  shouldn't  have  the  half- 
guinea,  but  of  course  he  daresn't. 

"  'What  a  'tarnal  ideeot  I  was,'  thoft  I,  'not  to  ha'  seen 
what  the  buffs'd  give  me  to  answer  him  back  agen.'  Just 
as  I  was  wondering  whether  he'd  call  me  a  bottle-nosed 
rascal,  one  of  the  blues  near  me,  who  knowed  about  it, 
whispered,  'Now  then,  Pinion,  there's  your  coo.'  'Where?' 
says  I.  'It  can't  be  my  coo,'  says  I, ' 'cause  I  ain't  got  one; 

must   be    Must'    Huntingdon's    what's   broke   loose " 

Then  I  see  the  old  Colonel  staring  wery  hard  at  me  and 
waiting,  and  the  blue  nudged  me  agen,  so,  all  in  a  fluster, 
I  said,  '  Why  did  you  run  away  from  Plassey  ? ' ' 


RUNNING   HORSE  INN  171 

"But  what  about  the  coo?  Where  did  that  come  in?" 
asked  a  fisherman. 

"I  dunno  to  this  day.    I  never  see  none  come  in  at  all." 

Stebbings  again  explained. 

"  'Why  did  you  run  away  from  Plassey?'  says  I,  in  a 
fluster.  In  course,  I  ought  to  ha'  said,  'Who  run  away?' 
The  old  Colonel  got  purpler  and  purpler,  and  then  he 
turned  yellow  like  a  pegle  (cowslip),  and  spluttered  and 
shook  his  fists;  but  at  last  he  went  on  with  his  speech. 
'Jigger  me  tight,'  thoft  I,  'I'll  have  to  be  carefuller  next 
time!'  So  I  shouted  out,  almost  before  he  got  to  Church 
and  State,  'You  oughter  be  tarred  and  feathered,  you 
ought!'  'Drawn  and  quartered,'  I  should  have  said;  but 
there,  I'd  spoilt  his  answer  agen — he!  he!" 

"He  might  have  said  he  meant  to  feather  his  nest  at 
Westminster,"  said  Stebbings,  hotly,  "for  that's  what  they 
all  go  there  for,  the  lying,  soft-speaking  knaves!" 

"There  weren't  wery  much  soft  speaking  about  him, 
though,  when  I  went  for  my  half-guinea,"  said  Pinion, 
chuckling. 

George  had  listened  in  silence.  Taking  Pinion's  story 
as  a  text,  Stebbings  raved  on  about  the  state  of  England 
and  the  type  of  men  who  ruled  her.  Calling  again  for 
another  Cromwell,  he  turned  to  George  for  support. 

"What'd  you  do  if  you  had  one,  though,  Stebbings?" 
growled  George. 

"  Do  ?  I  reckon  we'd  soon  show  what  we'd  do.  Give  us  a 
man,  and  we'll  follow  him  soon  enough.  Our  Club,  now — " 

He  rambled  on,  George  listening  and  pulling  at  his  pipe. 
After  all,  Stebbings  voiced  the  thoughts  of  thousands,  of 
millions,  who  were  waiting  for  a  man  strong  enough  to 
lead  and  to  deliver.  In  the  events  of  the  evening,  in  the 
lost  fight  against  dishonour,  George,  flushed  with  drink, 
saw  the  hand  of  destiny,  urging  him  to  London  and  to 
fortune  higher  than  his  boyish  dreams  had  reached. 


172  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

Delilah  began  sullenly  to  collect  the  tankards.  The  men 
trooped  out,  yawning,  and  exchanging  good-nights.  "I'll 
lock  up,"  said  George. 

Delilah  went  up  to  bed  without  speaking;  a  scowl  and 
a  sniff  that  seemed  half  a  sigh  were  her  only  thanks.  George 
waited  until  he  heard  her  on  the  stairs,  and  then  opened 
the  front  door,  and  stood  before  the  inn,  under  the  stars. 
In  the  distance  he  could  hear  Stebbings  and  Pinion  talk- 
ing; the  buzz  of  voices  and  sound  of  footsteps  died  away. 
He  drank  in  the  air,  laden  with  salt  and  the  smell  of  weed. 

"Grand  night,"  shouted  Craddock,  the  riding-officer, 
clattering  past  on  his  way  towards  Reculver.  "Ay,  it  is," 
answered  George.  A  wonderful  night!  All  the  houses 
seemed  asleep  now.  Old  men  and  the  wives  of  their  youth 
lay  side  by  side,  behind  those  walls,  talking  over  the  slow 
day's  events;  young  husbands  and  wives  had  locked  out 
the  world,  and  locked  in  with  them  all  woman's  beauty 
and  all  manhood's  strength;  lovers  dreamed  already  of 
their  love,  and  of  the  next  day's  meeting. 

George  shut  the  door  at  last,  and  shot  the  bolts  with  a 
tingling  sense  of  mastery.  It  was  his  house  to-night.  He, 
too,  was  locking  out  the  world. 

He  filled  his  glass  again,  turned  the  light  out  in  the  tap- 
room, and,  taking  John's  chair  in  the  parlour,  lit  the  last 
pipe  of  the  day.  He  lay  back,  puffing  out  the  blue  clouds 
slowly,  and  thinking.  He  felt  the  old  eagerness  for  that 
fight  against  a  world  which  had  hitherto  defeated  but  not 
vanquished  him.  From  the  height  to  which  drink  and 
passion  had  raised  him,  the  devil  showed  him  all  the  king- 
doms of  the  earth.  He  saw  armies  with  banners  and  shin- 
ing weapons;  cheering  crowds;  courts  ablaze  with  purple 
and  with  gold;  and  ever  Bess  at  his  side,  like — and  as — 
a  queen.  Napoleon  dreamed  such  dreams  in  his  youth, 
and  they  came  true.  A  score  of  innkeepers'  sons,  lawyers' 
sons,  peasants'  sons,  shopkeepers'  sons,  in  France — "men 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  173 

made  of  mud,"  as  the  Emperor  said  himself — had  dreamed 
these  dreams,  and  found  them  true  at  last.  Why  not  his? 
His  spurred  thoughts  leapt  the  years,  the  difficulties;  the 
ordinary  moral  laws  were  binding  for  ordinary  men;  already, 
in  imagination,  he  was  high  above  them. 

Little  noises  in  the  room  above  told  him  that  Bess  was 
still  awake  and  restless;  they  ceased  at  last.  Oh,  he  would 
have  his  way  in  the  morning!  He  knocked  out  his  pipe 
on  the  grate,  and  went  up  to  bed. 

For  an  hour  or  more  he  lay  sleepless.  In  the  silent 
night,  with  only  the  soft  moaning  of  the  sea  and  the  gen- 
tle rustling  of  the  autumn  wind  to  listen  to,  the  fabric  of 
the  earthly  pomps  he  had  built  up  in  the  smoke-clouds 
vanished.  Now  he  thought  of  Bess,  and  of  her  only. 
Night  whispered  to  him  that  the  longest,  sunniest  day  of 
glory  has  its  own  night  coming.  Love  alone  lasted  undark- 
ened.  With  Bess,  poverty,  shame,  sickness,  death  itself 
would  be  endurable  and  even  happy.  He  could  not  live 
without  her.  He  had  loved  her  in  boyhood;  and  now  only 
her  love  could  complete  the  circle  of  his  life.  None  other, 
no  one  else — no  one,  however  far  he  might  be  borne  on 
the  tide  of  fortune — Bess  once,  and  Bess  always,  and  Bess 
only! 

It  was  unthinkable  that  year  after  year  should  pass, 
and  Bess  and  he  grow  grey  and  old,  yet  be  no  nearer.  He 
let  his  imagination  dwell  on  her,  and  on  the  incidents  of 
the  past  day.  He  felt  her  once  more  in  his  arms;  he  saw 
the  glint  of  her  eyes  in  starlight,  the  sun  on  her  face  and 
downcast  lashes;  and  her  image  seemed  painted  on  his 
mind,  real,  almost  tangible — not  just  a  memory  picture, 
but  a  visible  and  actual  image,  with  her  dark,  unruly  hair, 
her  ripe  lips,  her  eyes  challenging,  provoking,  unsearchable. 
Oh,  Bess!  Bess! 

After  tossing  from  side  to  side  for  hours,  he  got  out  of 
bed,  and  went  across  to  the  window,  which  he  flung  open. 


174  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

He  knelt  on  the  broad  sill,  as  he  had  knelt  once,  hot  with 
anger,  when  the  rumbling  voices  of  the  recruiters,  in  the 
room  below,  seemed  like  the  call  of  the  world.  The  fresh 
air  cooled  his  heated  face;  he  looked  for  a  long  time  over 
the  water.  But  no  help  came — he  prayed  for  none,  wanted 
none;  instead,  through  the  open  window,  the  whole  world 
of  beauty,  and  passion,  and  the  sweet  restlessness  of  love 
flooded  in.  The  sea  sighed  with  longing;  and  the  earth 
was  like  a  heart  pulsing  and  throbbing  with  love  in  the 
body  of  space.  The  vastness  of  all,  too,  furnished  him 
with  specious  arguments.  Soon  the  dark  sea,  flecked  with 
tiniest  lines  of  white  under  moon  and  stars,  spoke  to  him 
of  broader  laws  than  those  made  by  man — or  conceived 
by  man  as  uttered  by  God's  voice.  What  did  that  care, 
that  great  power  so  cruel  and  so  kind,  the  power  that  car- 
ries men  to  their  wars  and  commerces — and  sucks  them 
down  in  their  floating  homes  with  equal  callousness,  deaf 
to  prayers,  blind  to  sights  of  pity  and  of  woe — what  did 
that  care  for  the  puny  moralities  that  wreck  lives  for  the 
sake  of  a  scrap  of  written  paper,  a  churchman's  gabbled 
blessing? 

He  had  come  to  this  with  long  thinking;  yet  the  voice 
in  his  own  heart  was  never  altogether  silent.  His  brain 
and  his  desires  shouted  their  logic  at  it,  but  he  had  to  sin 
with  the  voice  still  warning  and  reproving. 

He  flung  himself  down  again,  lying  on  the  bed  uncov- 
ered. A  church  clock,  far  away,  sounded  the  hour  faintly. 
The  clock  below  answered  to  the  call,  as  if  waking  suddenly 
from  sleep.  Two  o'clock!  He  grudged  the  past  the  hours 
joining  it  so  rapidly.  Soon  the  morning  would  come;  but 
meantime,  alone  in  her  room  below,  Bess  was  sleeping,  or 
lying  awake,  like  him,  thinking,  perhaps  trying  to  brace 
herself  to  make  the  great  resolve,  and  find  even  the  world 
well  lost  for  love.  .  .  .  But  she  should  gain  the  world, 
not  lose  it. 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  175 

He  could  not  sleep,  he  could  not  rest.  His  brain,  still 
heated  with  the  drink,  harked  back  to  those  scenes  of  hor- 
ror and  license  after  Badajoz,  which  once  he  had  tried, 
shudderingly,  to  forget.  He  had  not  forgotten.  Even 
now  he  shrank  from  the  memory  a  little;  but  he  nerved 
himself  to  look  all  he  had  done  in  the  face.  What  was 
this  deed  he  contemplated,  compared  with  those?  And 
it  was  not  he  alone — an  army  had  sinned  with  him,  a 
whole  army.  There  seemed  a  kind  of  safety  and  assurance 
in  the  thought.  Thousands  of  men,  thousands  upon  thou- 
sands, had  done  things  which  would  be  hardly  absolved 
even  with  repentance.  Many  of  them,  he  knew,  had  not 
repented.  They  did  not  believe,  many  of  them,  in  the 
creed  that  was  considered  needful  for  salvation.  The  deeds 
they  did  at  Badajoz  they  had  done  before  at  Ciudad  Rod- 
rigo,  and  had  done  afterwards  at  San  Sebastian.  He  had 
seen  scores  of  men  cut  down  by  his  side,  with  oaths  and 
blasphemy  on  their  lips,  with  lust  in  their  hearts,  with 
drink  in  full  possession  of  their  senses  at  the  very  moment 
of  sudden  death.  Yes,  if  there  were  a  reckoning  some  day 
for  all  this,  a  great  army  of  his  old  comrades  would  stand 
with  him  before  the  throne  of  God — an  army  defiant  still 
and  fearless,  ready  to  brave  even  hell  with  a  jest,  and 
march  cheering,  shoulder  to  shoulder  once  more,  against 
the  devil  and  his  legions. 

Oh,  the  tales  they  had  told  him  in  boyhood  were  spun 
out  of  cowardice  and  ignorance  of  the  world.  Again  he 
saw  the  streets  of  Badajoz  after  that  night  of  slaughter, 
when  corpses  lay  breast-high  in  fosse  and  on  escarpment, 
torn,  scorched,  pale  and  stiff  in  death,  or  writhing  still  in 
agonies  that  death  grudged  to  end.  Again  those  who  had 
come  unscathed — or  nearly  so — through  fire  and  water, 
were  bursting  into  the  doomed  city,  delirious  with  joy  at 
their  safety,  mad  to  drink  of  the  cup  of  life  which  had  so 
nearly  been  taken  from  their  lips.  It  had  been  like  a 


176  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

nightmare  to  him  for  years;  but  now  he  saw  little  vivid 
pictures  which  his  mind,  blurred  though  it  had  been  by 
drink,  had  retained.    After  Ciudad  he  had  struggled  with 
the  devil  in  him,  not  without  success.    He  had  even  helped 
when  the  officers  of  the  95th  had  called  together  a  few  reli- 
able men  to  check  the  excesses  of  those  who  were  getting 
out  of  hand.    As  he  was  borne  into  Badajoz,  and  felt  the 
stir  of  passions  as  they  rose  to  answer  the  call  of  lawless- 
ness   and  disorder,  he  had  muttered  to  himself — had  said 
to  himself  aloud,  though  he  did  not  know  it  in  the  tense 
excitement,  "Keep  straight,  now,  keep  straight;  oh,  for 
God's  sake,  keep  straight!"     And  was  it  his  fault  alto- 
gether that  he  had  been  as  bad  as  the  rest?    He  saw  one 
street,  a  broad  street,  with  trees  lining  it,  and  deserted 
seats  here  and  there — a  public  promenade,  no  doubt,  in 
times  of  peace — very  plainly.    There  were  tall  houses  on 
either  side,  houses  with  iron-studded  doors  after  the  Span- 
ish fashion,   with   grated   windows,   with   long,  balconied 
windows  up  above,  through  which  splinters  of  light  showed 
between  closed  blinds.    Fires,  made  of  wrecked  furniture, 
branches  of  trees,  carts,  shutters,  doors,  towered  into  the 
night,  and  flung  strange  lights,  and  strange  leaping  shadows 
of  men  in  shakoes  and  helmets — all  manner  of  uncouth 
shadow  headgears — on  the  white  and  painted  walls.    Near 
one  of  these  furnaces  in  the  centre  of  the  street  a  group  of 
men  stood,  unsteadily,  round  a  great  open  barrel.     The 
flames  brought  their  faces  dodging  in  and  out  of  darkness; 
faces  like  the  faces  of  madmen;  red  eyes,  lips  black  or 
grey  from  biting  of  cartridges,  brows  and  cheeks  scratched 
and  bleeding,  hair  matted  with  sweat  and  blood.    Every 
moment  some  came  running  up,  laughing  with  a  laughter 
weird  and  inhuman,  and  crashed  on  to  the  blaze  costly 
spoils;   gilt-legged  chairs,  consoles,  hacked-out  fragments 
of  doors,  wooden  saints  and  virgins  from  the  churches,  still 
in  their  garbs  of  tinselled,  dusty  silk — all  went  in;  all  were 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  177 

greeted  by  hoarse  cheers,  and  stifling  smoke,  and  fresh 
sheaves  of  sparks.  George  had  dodged  a  line  of  men  who, 
linked  arm  in  arm,  kicking  their  legs  high  in  air,  shouting 
at  the  top  of  their  voices,  were  chasing  all  who  were  luck- 
less enough  to  get  in  their  way,  and,  overturning  them  at 
last,  left  them  trampled  and  bruised  on  the  stones.  He 
had  ducked  time  after  time  when  men,  senseless  already 
with  drink  and  victory,  had  fired  aimlessly  down  the  street, 
killing  even  their  own  comrades.  Was  any  one  sober  in 
the  95th?  Any  one  sane  in  the  whole  army?  The  fight- 
ing was  over;  but  in  Badajoz  itself  there  was  almost  as 
much  danger  as  in  the  trenches  or  on  the  counterscarp. 
He  waited  in  a  doorway  for  a  moment.  A  girl  rushed  out, 
her  black  eyes  wild  with  terror,  her  dress  dishevelled,  torn 
by  some  rough  hand  so  that  the  swelling  breasts  were  seen 
plainly,  heaving  with  excitement,  with  panic,  with  repul- 
sion. Some  soldiers  of  another  regiment  were  close  be- 
hind her,  yelling  like  hunters  near  the  quarry.  George 
thrust  his  foot  out;  one  of  the  men  fell,  but  recovered,  and, 
paying  no  heed  to  the  obstacle,  staggered  after  her  again 
— George  heard  her  shrieks,  and  saw  the  men  close  round 
her.  He  ran  out  of  his  shelter  again;  the  girl's  figure  had 
possession  of  his  brain,  but  still  he  mastered  himself.  And 
then  the  group  round  the  barrel  seized  and  hustled  him,  as 
they  seized  and  hustled  every  passer-by.  "Drink!  drink!" 
they  ordered;  half-a-dozen  mess-tins,  dipped  into  the  bar- 
rel, and  now  running  over,  were  thrust  towards  him.  Why, 
they  made  Wellington  himself  drink  to  the  Army,  these 
fellows.  George  saw  him — saw  him  with  his  own  eyes. 
Two  soldiers  had  him  by  the  arms;  other  officers  were  with 
him,  at  the  men's  mercy.  The  great  commander  was  pulled 
to  this  side  and  that  with  the  rocking  of  the  drunken  men. 
They  thrust  their  powder-grimed  faces  close  to  his,  shouted 
at  him,  an  inch  from  his  lips;  George  saw  him,  in  the  clear 
firelight — saw  his  nostrils  quiver,  no  doubt  as  the  stench 
12 


178  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

of  their  spirit-charged  breath  poured  into  him.  Everything 
was  so  distinct  in  that  remembered  scene;  even  the  quiver 
of  the  high-arched  nose,  round  which  the  skin  was  drawn 
tight  as  the  parchment  of  a  drum.  Why,  he  could 
see  still  even  the  hands  of  the  men  as  they  raised  the 
tins,  hands  wet  and  red.  And  Wellington  tried  to  argue 
with  them,  to  order  them  back  into  their  senses — a  task 
impossible  even  to  him.  He  was  howled  down.  With 
his  short,  grim  laugh,  like  whooping-cough,  he  drank. 
They  clapped  him  on  the  back  for  a  good  fellow,  and  let 
him  go. 

The  maddening  smell  of  the  liquor  was  under  George's 
nose.  "Drink!  drink!"  He  took  a  draught  of  the  fiery, 
choking  stuff.  The  tin  was  clapped  down  tight  against 
his  face;  its  contents  poured  over  him,  down  his  neck, 
down  his  uniform,  already  soaked  with  blood,  and  dirt, 
and  perspiration.  A  second  man  hurled  the  first  aside. 
"  Drink !  drink ! "  A  firelock  was  pointed  unsteadily  against 
his  breast.  What  could  he  do?  At  any  moment  the  un- 
steady, fumbling  fingers  might  press  the  trigger —  He 
drank  again. 

Lying  on  his  bed  in  the  Running  Horse,  with  the  sea  and 
the  autumn  wind  sighing  in  his  ears,  he  saw  all  this  as  if 
it  were  just  happening.  But  the  succeeding  scenes  were 
dim  and  blurred.  He  had  a  faint  vision  of  another  line  of 
men,  linked  arm  in  arm,  rushing  down  the  street — he  was 
one,  shouting  as  wildly  as  any,  oaths,  blasphemies,  ribald 
songs,  even  snatches  of  hymns  remembered  from  quiet 
Sundays  in  another  world.'  Men,  women,  children,  were 
scurrying  before  them,  yelling;  now  and  then  a  dark  mass 
rolled  over  in  the  dust,  and  was  kicked,  and  trampled  on, 
and  left  behind.  They  were  breaking  off  now  to  enter 
houses,  the  doors  of  which  were  open.  They  drank  anew, 
smashing  the  necks  from  bottles,  lolling  over  open  casks, 
and  lapping  up  the  spirit  of  the  wine  like  dogs.  One  door, 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  179 

a  great,  handsome  door,  very  solid,  and  studded  with  great 
nails,  was  slammed  in  their  faces.  That  door  annoyed 
them.  There  had  been  the  shimmer  of  silk  garments  within. 
George  had  a  vague  recollection  of  firing  his  rifle  against 
the  lock.  Other  rifles  and  muskets  were  pressed  against 
his.  As  the  door  at  last  was  battered  open,  some  of  the 
men,  with  the  inconstancy  of  those  drunk,  caught  sight  of 
an  officer  in  charge  of  some  ladies  and  rushed  after  him; 
they  swung  him  to  a  post,  with  belts  and  accoutrements; 
one  great  fellow,  with  a  stupid,  simpering  laugh,  pushed 
him  to  and  fro  with  the  butt  of  his  firelock,  swinging  him 
as  he  was  trussed — laughing  that  silly,  simpering  laugh 
all  the  time.  George  and  two  other  men  rushed  into  the 
house.  An  old  man  with  a  white  peaked  beard  hurled  a 
chair  at  the  foremost;  the  man  slipped  on  the  marble 
floor,  and  lay  there,  his  ten  black  fingers  and  thumbs  stuck 
out  in  the  most  ludicrous  fashion,  his  limbs  like  the  stuffed 
limbs  of  some  lay  figure.  Then — somehow  or  other — the 
old  man's  face  and  beard  crimsoned;  he  crashed  down, 
and  lay,  a  quivering  heap  of  clothes.  Why,  he  was  a  small 
man,  but  suddenly  he  seemed  to  have  shrunk  into  almost 
nothingness.  There  was  a  cry  in  the  room  beyond,  a  wo- 
man's shriek,  and  the  curtains  separating  them  parted, 
showing  the  white,  scared  face  of  a  young  man,  his  little 
stiff  moustache  very  black  against  his  colourless  skin. 
And  behind  him  was  a  young  woman,  wide-eyed,  in  light 
clothing.  It  was  a  race  between  George  and  the  other 
soldier.  For  a  second  the  sword  of  the  young  Spaniard 
flickered  in  the  candle-light,  a  thin  line  of  dancing  light 
itself.  He  flung  his  arms  up,  and  fell  backwards.  George 
had  been  first;  but  the  second  soldier  was  at  his  heels, 
panting,  clutching  at  his  tunic.  George  looked  round 
savagely.  That  face,  too,  came  back  to  him  distinctly— 
a  face  with  the  lips  drawn  from  the  yellow  dog-teeth,  like 
a  snarling  beast's — perhaps  his  own  were,  too,  at  that 


180  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

moment.  Desire  went  out  of  the  snarling  face  suddenly, 
as  the  butt  of  the  rifle  fell — George  had  won. 

He  had  thought  afterwards,  when  the  horror  of  waking 
had  come,  that  the  young  Spaniard  must  have  been  the 
girl's  newly  wedded  husband;  she  was  quite  young,  and 
one  white  hand  that  tried  to  keep  him  back  had  on  it  a 
band  of  gold,  broad  and  new  and  glistening. 

This  was  the  first  night  after  the  taking  of  Badajoz — the 
beginning  of  the  three  days'  reign  of  anarchy,  and  terror, 
and  unchecked  crime,  which  ended  only  when  Wellington 
ordered  in  the  Portuguese  troops,  and  set  up  the  great 
triple  gallows  in  the  Square. 

For  the  first  time  since  his  senses  had  come  back  to  him, 
George  dwelt  willingly  on  these  scenes.  He  had  done  all 
this:  the  unwanted  memory,  forcing  itself  upon  him,  had 
made  the  nights  of  his  illness  and  convalescence  terrible. 
He  had  repented  bitterly.  And  he  had  come  back,  meaning 
to  begin  a  clean  and  wholesome  life;  purged  of  his  ambi- 
tion; a  slave  no  longer,  he  hoped,  to  the  mad  devils  of  lust, 
and  cruelty,  and  drunkenness  that  had  ruled  him.  .  .  . 
And  what  had  he  gained  by  his  resolves? 

He  sat  up  in  bed,  then  crossed  to  the  door,  and  opened 
it  very  quietly,  and  stood  listening.  It  was  very  quiet  in 
the  house. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

'T'HE  air  seemed  stifling,  though  it  was  a  cool  autumn 
1  night.  He  stood  with  strained  ears,  irresolute.  What 
had  he  gained  by  those  resolves?  Had  God — if  there  were 
this  God  they  talked  about — had  He  helped  him?  At  the 
threshold  of  his  old  home  and  his  changed  life,  he  had 
found  the  girl  whom  he  had  loved  an  hour-old  bride.  At 
their  threshold,  he  had  learnt  that  his  mother  had  gone 
where  no  letters  could  ever  reach  her,  no  love  or  sorrow 
or  remorse  be  told.  For  a  year  now  he  had  had  to  watch 
his  brother's  happiness  in  the  smiles  and  glances  and  little 
wifely  duties  that  should  have  been  for  him.  And  yet  he 
had  been  loyal,  true  to  his  part  of  the  bargain  of  reforma- 
tion, and  had  thrown  aside  his  own  ambitions  to  help  his 
brother  and  his  wife.  Was  it  his  fault  that  everything  had 
failed  ?  It  seemed  as  if  the  heavens  had  a  spite  against  him, 
as  if  they  remembered,  and  would  not  forget;  as  if  the 
Creator  lacked  the  generosity  to  forgive  sins  so  bitterly 
repented.  But  he  would  repent  no  longer.  He  even  found 
excuses,  in  his  earlier  valour,  in  his  half-hearted  efforts  to 
keep  straight,  in  the  urgings  of  circumstance.  Many  a 
score  of  men  whom  the  old  graves  cover,  shuddering  in  age 
over  those  wild  Badajoz  nights,  must  have  sought  just 
such  excuses  to  shield  them  from  the  belated  consequences 
of  their  acts. 

For  George  was  reaping  part  of  his  punishment  in  weaker 
resistance  to  this  temptation.  Bess  was  alone  in  the  room 
below — John  away — the  doors  locked  against  the  world! 
If  he  were  not  to  love  her,  what  right  had  God  to  make  the 
forbidden  fruit  so  sweet?  He  wondered  whether  Bess  was 
sleeping.  Perhaps  she  was  righting  a  battle,  too,  in  her 
room.  Oh,  he  felt  sure  she  loved  him! 

181 


182  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

After  what  seemed  an  age  of  thought  and  hesitation,  one 
motive  swayed  him:  his  desire.  He  stepped  out,  bare- 
footed, into  the  passage.  He  crept  very  quietly  past  Deli- 
lah's door,  though  she  was  always  a  sound  sleeper,  and 
went  down  the  short  narrow  flight  of  stairs.  He  had  scarcely 
formed  any  plan  of  action.  There  was  the  sound  of  regu- 
lar breathing  within  Bess's  room,  and  he  listened,  wonder- 
ing whether  she  were  awake.  The  clocks  struck  in  the 
still  night,  marking  the  hours  remorselessly  which  brought 
the  unconscious  sleepers  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  beds  in 
which  they  would  all  lie,  one  night,  for  the  long  sleep — 
solemn,  warning  voices,  clear  and  distinct  in  the  silence. 
To  George  they  meant  only  that  day  was  coming;  the 
night  ending,  his  opportunity  perhaps  slipping  by. 

Oh,  he  must  win  her  over  now  to  the  great  decision — 
he  knew  what  to  say,  how  to  urge  and  coax  her  into  flight. 
They  would  be  away  before  cock-crow — away  together 
through  the  sleeping  hamlet,  through  the  sleeping  country, 
answering  the  call  of  the  great  city.  .  .  . 

"Bess!"  he  whispered,  and  tapped  softly. 

He  waited  anxiously  for  an  answer.  In  the  dead  of 
night,  whispering  together,  young  together,  he  knew  he 
could  persuade  her.  Passion  would  leap  out  to  meet  passion 
from  the  darkness  and  the  silence. 

"Bess!" 

Had  she  been  awake,  his  voice  was  so  low,  so  hoarsely 
timid  of  the  great  stillness  in  the  house,  that  it  could  not 
have  reached  her  ears.  Yet  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had 
shouted  her  name.  His  heart  beat  faster. 

But  no  answer  came;  and  now  it  seemed  as  if  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice  had  broken  some  spell  which  held  him. 
He  realised  suddenly  where  he  was,  what  he  was  doing. 
In  the  dead  of  night,  at  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  his 
brother's  wife  was  sleeping!  The  room  where  his  mother 
and  father  had  slept  when  he  was  a  child!  The  door 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  183 

through  which  their  bodies  had  been  carried  to  the  grave! 
Barefooted,  as  he  was  now,  he  had  stood  with  his  brother 
at  that  door,  years  and  years  ago,  carrying  little  gifts  on 
Christmas  or  birthday  mornings.  Oh,  what  a  fool  he  was! 
But  there  was  still  time  to  go  back;  to  shut  himself  in  his 
room;  to  fight  the  evil  in  his  heart  and  conquer  it.  He 
went  to  the  foot  of  the  steps.  Then  the  sudden  recollec- 
tion flashed  across  his  mind  that  there  was  no  bolt  on 
Bess's  door;  she  and  John  always  slept  with  it  unfastened. 
The  temptation  was  too  great.  Some  power,  almost  physi- 
cal, seemed  to  drag  him  back,  still  unwilling.  He  would 
open  the  door  a  little — just  an  inch  or  two.  A  moon  shone 
now  through  filmy  clouds.  He  would  just  push  the  door 
wide  enough  open  to  see  her  lying  there,  flushed  in  sleep, 
with  her  dark  hair  covering  the  pillow — just  wide  enough 
for  that — and  then  go  back. 

But  if  she  were  awake?  Awake,  with  those  mysterious, 
compelling  eyes  open  and  turned  towards  him?  Well, 

then He  resisted  no  longer.  But  he  would  be  very 

cautious;  he  must  not  startle  her,  and  make  her  cry  out, 
with  Delilah  sleeping  overhead.  George  beat  down  the 
last  warning  impulse  which  might  have  been  his  salvation, 
and  hers. 

The  handle  turned  noiselessly — almost  noiselessly,  though 
his  heart  gave  a  great  leap  and  stood  still  at  the  faint 
creak  that  sounded,  in  his  tense  excitement,  almost  like  a 
pistol-shot  ringing  through  the  silent  house.  He  waited  a 
second  or  two,  his  hand  still  circling  the  smooth  metal, 
then  pushed  the  door  gently,  an  inch,  two  inches.  Some- 
thing resisted.  He  pushed  against  the  obstacle,  cautiously 
at  first,  then  more  boldly. 

What  was  that? 

He  sprang  back  and  stood  quivering.  Without  warning, 
a  din  like  the  outbreak  of  pandemonium  rose  inside  the 
room.  A  heavy  chair,  poised  with  its  back  against  the  door, 


184  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

its  tilted  legs  resting  against  a  box,  had  been  suddenly 
dislodged;  it  clattered  sidelong  down,  making  a  noise  out 
of  all  proportion,  in  the  silence,  to  the  effect  that  caused  it. 

' '  What  is  it  ?     Who 's  there  ? " 

It  was  Bess's  voice,  strained  and  startled;  yet  he  could 
tell  that  courage  struggled  with  her  fear.  The  wooden 
bedstead  creaked;  he  heard  the  sound  of  her  bare  feet 
crossing  the  floor. 

"Bess!  Bess!"  he  whispered,  hoarsely,  "I  can't  sleep,  I 

can't  rest Oh,  my  love,  it's  no  good,  you  must 

come " 

"George!" 

Her  nearness  maddened  him.  He  pushed  desperately 
at  the  door,  thrust  it  a  foot  ajar,  and,  through  the  opening, 
caught  a  glimpse  of  her  there  in  the  moonlight,  pale, 
wide-eyed,  with  her  dark  hair  sweeping  the  shoulders  of 
her  white  nightgown  like  a  cloud.  All  caution,  all  scruples, 
all  self-deception,  were  swept  to  the  winds  now.  The  mad 
impulse  only  possessed  him,  to  catch  her  to  his  breast,  to 
breathe  into  her  ears  all  his  sighing,  aching  passion;  to 
coax  her,  urge  her,  frighten  her,  if  need  were,  into  love 
equal  to  his  own — love  selfish,  unbridled,  intent  only  on 
the  satisfaction  of  its  hunger. 

With  a  little  cry  she  sprang  to  the  door,  and  pushed 
against  his  great  strength.  How  pitiful  and  almost  laugh- 
able! He  caught  one  little  hand  roughly,  and  covered  it 
with  hot  kisses,  even  while  he  was  overcoming  her  resist- 
ance. "Delilah!  Delilah!"  she  cried.  Oh,  it  was  not  loud 
enough,  that,  to  carry  to  the  attic  where  Delilah  slept, 
unawakened  even  by  the  uproar  of  his  entry.  Even  now, 
in  his  appalling  egoism,  he  began  to  imagine  that  the 
resistance  was  only  feigned,  the  cry  modulated  intention- 
ally so  that  it  should  not  reach  the  sleeper's  ears — uttered 
merely  as  a  salve  to  modesty  and  convention. 

An  awful  awakening  came  to  him,  quite  suddenly. 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  185 

Loud  and  raucous,  in  the  very  room  itself,  rose  Deli- 
lah's voice.  "What  is  it?  Oh,  my,  it's  the  end — what, 
Must'  George!  Hold  the  door,  mum,  hold  the  door — I'm 
coming!  Must'  George  trying  to  get  in!  Go  away.  Go 
away  at  once.  I  never  beared  of  such  a  thing.  In  a  decent 
house — but  the  Lord  only  knows " 

She  was  out  of  bed  as  she  spoke,  rushing  across  the  room; 
through  the  opening,  now  wider,  he  saw  the  freckled  face 
distorted  with  anger,  the  fiery  hair,  screwed  tightly  for  the 
night,  shaking  like  Medusa  locks.  Her  first  thought  had 
been  of  that  judgment  day  on  which  her  mind  was  set  so 
often.  The  din  of  the  falling  chair  had  startled  her  into  a 
consciousness  too  confused  for  speech  or  action.  But  the 
merely  physical  had  few  terrors  for  her — none  now,  in  the 
revulsion  of  feeling  from  expectation  of  that  final  cata- 
clysm. Spluttering  out  indignant  threats,  a  running  com- 
mination  service  of  splenetic  abuse,  she  joined  her  strength 
to  that  of  her  mistress.  Before  George  had  recovered 
from  the  shock,  the  door  was  slammed  in  his  face;  one 
of  his  fingers,  withdrawn  just  too  late,  was  numbed 
and  mangled.  Pain,  rage,  the  sudden  awakening  to 
the  fact  that  Bess's  thoughts  had  never  travelled  the 
same  unclean  road  as  his,  made  him  persist,  in  ungovern- 
able fury. 

"What's  it  to  do  with  you?"  he  shouted.  "Open  the 
door,  and  come  out,  and  go  to  your  room.  Bess,  don't  be 
a  little  fool.  You  can't  live  this  life — you  don't  know 
what  you're  doing " 

"She  knows  well  enough,"  screamed  Delilah.  She 
jerked  out  texts,  threats,  fearful  warnings  of  judgment  to 
come,  between  punctuating  grunts,  as  her  brawny,  freckled 
arms,  used  to  years  of  hard  work  and  the  carrying  of  heavy 
burdens,  kept  the  door  from  yielding.  It  was  like  the  door 
at  Badajoz  again.  "I  never  beared  of  such  a  thing!  But 
God  Himself  only  knows  what  to  expect  from  a  soager 


186  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

who's  been  in  those  bloody  wars,  fearing  neither  Him  nor 
man — 'hating  the  good  and  not  the  evil,  plucking  off  their 
skin  from  off  them,  and  their  flesh  from' — oh,  oh,  oh! 
Mrs.  Kennett — the  nasty-minded  man,  he's " 

"Listen  to  me,  listen,  Bess.  I'm  not  talking  to  you, 
Delilah.  Hold  your  tongue." 

"Hold  my  tongue?  Ah,  you'll  have  more  to  fear  than 
my  tongue  for  this  in  that  great  and  notable  day,  Must' 
George,  when  you're  calling  on  the  very  rocks  to  cover  you, 
and  they  won't — and  you're  hurled  into  that  lake  of  brim- 
stone to  burn  for  ever  an'  ever  for  this  night's  work.  I've 
been  af eared  of  some  awful  judgment  for  living  in  the  seat 
of  sinners  and  the  scornful ;  but  I  see  now  why  I  was  led  to 
stay — the  Lord's  doing  only,  though  marvellous  in  my  eyes. 
Push  harder,  Mrs.  Kennett.  It's  well  you — you  did  ax 
me  to  sleep  with  you  to-night,  my  dear;  though  little  I 
knew  why.  Oh,  oh!" 

George  drew  back.  He  sucked  his  finger,  and  looked  at 
it  ruefully  in  the  moonlight,  with  which  dawn  would  soon 
contend.  His  thoughts  were  far  away  from  the  little 
wound.  A  cock  crew  in  the  yard. 

"Go  to  your  room,  Must'  George;  go  to  your  room,  and 
fall  on  your  knees,  and  then  go  your  way.  Even  the  bird 
knows  its  Lord  denied  and  mocked." 

He  would  have  that  door  down.  Suddenly  he  rushed 
forward,  and  struck  at  it  savagely  with  both  fists,  kicked 
at  it  even,  though  his  feet  were  bare,  and  the  impact  sent 
him  back  again,  bruised  and  bleeding.  From  within  he 
heard  Bess's  hard  breathing — now  and  then  a  little,  gasp- 
ing sob,  but  no  words.  Delilah  only  broke  off  her  torrent 
to  draw  breath.  He  attacked  the  door  again  and  again, 
madly,  insensately.  At  last  Delilah  called  out  with  a  new 
note  of  hope  and  warning  in  her  voice. 

"The  rattle!  The  rattle!  Push  hard,  mum,  just  for  a 
moment."  The  door  almost  yielded;  then,  as  the  servant 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  187 

hurled  herself  back  at  it  with  all  her  weight,  was  rammed 
home  once  more  into  the  frame.  "I've  got  it,  I've  got  it," 
Delilah  cried  triumphantly.  There  was  a  warning  whirr. 
"  Go  away  at  once,  or  I'll  sound  it  and  call  the  neighbours." 
He  knew  that  she  had  in  her  hand  now  the  great  wooden 
rattle,  used  in  those  days  to  give  warning  against  robbers; 
it  clicked  round  again,  like  the  clearing  of  some  colossal 
throat  preparatory  to  speech.  In  another  moment  the 
whole  village  would  be  alarmed.  Fishermen,  tradesmen, 
peasants,  would  be  running  from  all  parts  to  the  inn, 
hammering  at  the  door,  effecting  an  entrance,  if  Delilah 
ran  to  the  window  and  shrieked  for  help. 

George  rapped  out  a  flood  of  oaths — all  covering  of  de- 
cent self-respect  long  gone — and  went  back  to  his  room. 
He  sat  down  on  the  bed,  and  tried  to  think.  His  brain  was 
in  a  whirl.  What  had  he  done?  Was  it  all  a  dream?  All  a 
nightmare?  The  whole  scene  was  quite  unpremeditated. 
He  had  formed  no  active  resolution  when  he  left  this  room 
so  short  a  time  ago.  He  had  lost  all  hope  of  Bess  for  ever 
now — for  ever.  Although  the  reaction  had  not  yet  fully 
come,  he  knew  that  he  had  to  look  forward  now  to  an  awful 
reckoning,  like  that  which  followed  Badajoz,  for  days,  and 
months,  and  at  intervals  for  years. 

He  dressed  almost  mechanically,  and  put  his  few  belong- 
ings together,  like  a  man  acting  in  his  sleep.  The  two  wo- 
men, clinging  to  each  other  in  the  bedroom  behind  hastily 
made  barricades,  heard  the  slow  footsteps  creaking  on  the 
stairs,  heard  the  click  of  the  bolt  as  he  unfastened  the 
door  leading  from  the  passage  to  the  parlour.  George 
went  into  the  bar.  In  the  faint  light — for  the  blinds  were 
drawn — he  groped  his  way  to  the  little  shelf  where  bottles 
and  tankards  were  ranged,  and  drew  himself  a  stiff  glass 
of  the  liquor  that  was  more  than  half  responsible  for  the 
night's  mad  scene.  At  last  the  listeners  upstairs  heard  the 
bang  of  the  outer  door. 


188  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Bess  flung  herself  into  Delilah's  arms,  and  wept  at  last, 
unrestrained,  while  the  freckled  hand  smoothed  the  dark, 
cloudy  hair. 

George  stood  for  a  moment,  haggard-eyed,  looking  at 
the  sea  and  the  lonely  beaches.  Very  empty  and  silent 
lay  the  world.  He  passed  below  the  sleeping  houses — by 
Captain  Rockett's  quiet  garden,  where  the  carved  figure- 
heads seemed  to  eye  him  with  wonder  and  reproach.  What 
a  fool  he  had  been!  What  a  mad  and  wicked  fool!  He 
could  almost  feel  the  sinking  of  his  spirit  from  the  exalta- 
tion of  rage  and  passion  to  the  lowest  hell  of  remorse  and 
depression.  But  as  yet  he  could  scarcely  think.  His  head 
was  burning,  his  hands  were  dry  and  hot.  He  gave  one 
long  look  at  the  sea,  which  had  watched  his  boyhood,  and 
helped  him  when  he  heard  the  news  of  his  mother's  death 
and  the  ending  of  his  dreams  of  happiness.  There  was  no 
help  for  him  there  now — no  soothing  balm  in  its  soft  breezes, 
no  message  of  healing  and  forgiving. 

He  shuddered,  and,  turning  his  back  on  the  great  space 
of  water,  strode  quickly  up  the  Canterbury  road. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A  FEW  hours  later,  while  George  was  waiting  in  Canter- 
bury for  the  London  coach  to  start,  John  Kennett 
left  Sturry  for  his  home.  He  rode  slowly,  burdened  with 
the  weight  of  bad  news.  When  he  had  visited  the  lawyers 
on  the  previous  day,  they  had  received  him  cordially  at 
first,  expecting  the  little  genial  pantomime  which  usually 
preceded  the  payment  of  interest  on  the  mortgage.  Sitting 
in  their  dusty  office,  the  two  partners  had  heard  the  delib- 
erate, heavy  tread  on  the  stairs,  the  loud  single  knock  at 
the  door.  "Come  in,"  cried  Mr.  Jeacock,  the  elder  man, 
fat,  flabby,  pasty-faced,  with  three  chins,  the  lowest  tucked 
away  as  if  in  bashfulness  beneath  a  heavy  stock — but  con- 
stantly emerging.  "Ah,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Kennett?" 
Then  Mr.  Wetherby,  the  junior  partner,  who  was  thin  and 
narrow-faced,  with  black  hair  and  a  skin  like  yellow 
parchment,  rose  to  welcome  him. 

Hitherto,  the  procedure  had  always  been  the  same  on 
these  visits.  John  would  shake  hands  solemnly,  brush  his 
hat  on  his  sleeve,  and  place  it  with  mathematical  exact- 
ness under  the  very  centre  of  his  chair.  "A  fine  day, 
gentlemen,"  he  would  say — be  the  weather  what  it  might — 
and  then,  correcting  himself  if  it  poured  in  torrents,  "  least- 
ways, we've  had  some  grand  weather  lately,  so  we  mustn't 
grumble.  It  seems  to  me  all  weather's  specially  made  for 
them  that  keep  refreshment  for  man  and  beast.  But  I 
suppose,  gentlemen,  it's  much  the  same  with  you  in  your 
walk  of  life?  You  can  work  rain  or  shine — ha,  ha! " 

"Well,  yes,  Mr.  Kennett,"  the  stout  partner  would  say, 
"we're  not  much  dependent  on  the  weather — not  much 
dependent  on  the  weather.  Mr.  Wetherby,  I  daresay  Mr. 
Kennett  will  take  a  glass  of  wine." 

189 


190  RUNNING   HORSE  INN 

The  junior  partner  would  then  get  out  a  decanter  and 
thin-stemmed  glasses  from  a  neighbouring  cupboard,  and 
over  this  refreshment  local  matters,  crops,  and  the  pros- 
pects of  business  would  be  discussed.  At  last  John  would 
rise,  and  say  good-morning,  and  solemnly  shake  hands. 
Not  until  he  was  near  the  door  would  he  pause,  as  if  puzzled, 
and  dive  one  hand  deep  into  his  breeches  pocket.  "  Blessed 
if  I  wasn't  clean  forgetting  what  I  corned  about,  gentle- 
men," he  would  say,  with  a  bashful  laugh.  And,  with  that, 
out  would  come  a  crumpled  paper,  a  jack-knife,  some 
string,  some  coppers,  and  finally  a  netted  purse  of  green 
silk,  with  gilt  rings,  and  tassels  like  acorns.  From  this  he 
dropped  out  slowly  into  his  great  palm  the  amount  named 
on  the  paper,  and  waited,  twisting  his  hat  between  his 
hands,  while  the  receipt  was  being  made  out.  The  door 
was  never  long  closed  before  a  throaty  chuckle  came  from 
the  senior  partner,  and  a  short,  barking  laugh  from  the 
junior.  "A  very  honest  fellow  that,  Mr.  Wetherby,"  the 
senior  would  say.  "Always  here  to  the  minute  with  his 
money — to  the  very  minute."  "A  very  honest  man,  Mr. 
Jeacock,"  his  partner  would  reply. 

John  usually  went  homewards  guffawing  at  intervals, 
and  told  Bess,  directly  he  got  indoors,  that  he  had  made 
the  lawyers  fancy  they  weren't  going  to  get  their  money, 
and  had  gained  six  and  eightpence  over  the  transaction. 
"I  reckon  the  talk  I  had  with  them  was  worth  six  and 
eight,  eh,  lass?"  he  would  say,  chuckling  at  the  recollection. 

But  on  this  occasion,  though  he  doffed  his  hat  as  usual, 
he  did  not  put  it  underneath  the  chair.  He  shook  hands, 
because  the  hands  were  held  out — but  hastily,  and  with 
gloomy  face.  His  hand  then  dived  immediately  into  the 
deep  pocket.  The  genial  laugh  was  gone;  the  corners  of  the 
mouth  turned  down  ruefully.  The  old  partner  tried  to  in- 
tercept the  motion.  "Won't  you  sit  down,  Mr.  Kennett? 
Mr.  Wetherby,  I  daresay  Mr.  Kennett  will  take  a  glass " 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  191 

"No,  I  thank  you,  sir,"  said  John,  hastily,  still  fumbling 
in  his  pocket.  The  crumpled  paper  was  produced  at  last. 
He  peered  at  it  closely,  stammered,  began  a  sentence  and 
broke  off.  It  was  curious — it  would  have  been  curious, 
had  he  raised  his  eyes  to  their  faces — to  see  the  expressions 
of  Mr.  Jeacock  and  Mr.  Wetherby  slowly  change.  At  last 
he  managed  to  blurt  out  the  fact  that  he  couldn't  pay.  He 
stammered  out  something  about  bad  times,  better  pro«- 
pects,  an  extension  of  the  days  of  grace.  The  two  lawyers 
looked  very  serious  now. 

" Dear,  dear,  dear!"  said  the  senior  partner.  "I'm  sorry 
to  hear  this,  for  your  sake,  Mr.  Kennett.  But  you'll  take 
a  glass  of  wine  while  we  talk  the  matter  over?  No?  Well, 
I'm  sorry  to  hear  this,  as  I  say,  because  you  find  yourself 
unable  to  pay  at  a  very  awkward  time  for  us.  The  bank 
failure  has  affected  us  too — indirectly,  of  course — indi- 
rectly— but  still  fairly  seriously.  I  tell  you  this  in  confi- 
dence. We've  done  business  for  your  family  for  some  years, 
and  it  would  be  with  the  greatest  regret — eh,  Mr.  Wetherby? 
— with  the  very  greatest  regret  that  we  should  see  any  other 
occupant  of  the  Running  Horse.  Under  different  circum- 
stances we  would  agree  to  anything  rather  than  foreclose. 
But  in  these  times — grave  financial  depression — no  busi- 
ness doing — eh,  Mr.  Wetherby?" 

Mr.  Wetherby  wagged  his  thin,  solemn,  parchment- 
visaged  head  gravely. 

"Our  profession  is  the  first  to  be  affected,"  continued 
Mr.  Jeacock.  "If  people  have  no  money  to  leave,  they 
make  no  wills;  no  money  means  no  litigation;  no  litiga- 
tion— but  when  do  you  expect  to  be  able  to  pay?  I  ask 
merely  as  a  question,  mind,  without  prejudice;  but  how 
long  do  you  anticipate — eh " 

"In  a  few  months,  I  hope,"  muttered  John,  twirling  his 
hat;  then,  with  a  sudden  shame  at  this  hand-to-mouth 
hoping  which  might  mean  anything  or  nothing,  "but  there, 


192  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

• 

I  can't  promise,  anyhow,  gentlemen.  I  can't  give  my  word. 
If  trade  improves " 

"Exactly.  If  trade  improves.  An  asset  which  is  en- 
tirely in  the  air."  Mr.  Jeacock  put  the  tip  of  his  quill  in 
his  mouth,  and  thrust  his  third  chin  back  into  the  stock. 
"Now,  you're  frank  with  us,  Mr.  Kennett,  and  we'll  be 
equally  frank  with  you.  If  the  payments  are  not  forth- 
coming, we  are  entitled  to  foreclose.  It  will  probably 
occur  to  you  that  in  these  times  of  bad  trade  we  should 
have  a  difficulty  in  finding  another  tenant  if  we  took  pos- 
session. Your  business  has  not  paid,  and  empty  bricks 
and  timber  would  be  of  no  advantage  to  us." 

"I  had  thought  of  that,  sir,"  said  John.  Was  there 
anything  he  had  not  thought  of  on  the  road  to  Canterbury  ? 

His  face  cleared  a  little.  Perhaps  they  would  let  him 
stay  on  at  the  old  home  as  their  tenant,  and  make  some 
arrangement  by  which  he  could  buy  back  the  property  in 
better  times.  They  were  just  and  fair  men,  he  believed. 

"But,"  continued  Mr.  Jeacock,  taking  the  quill  out  of 
his  mouth,  and  looking  at  his  partner  rather  than  his 
client,  "we  have  just  had  an  offer  which  puts  our  relations 
on  a  different  footing — a  footing,  I  am  afraid,  less  favour- 
able to  your  hopes.  A  proposal  has  been  made  by  which, 
if  you  fail  to  meet  the  payments,  we  can  dispose  of  the 
property  at  a  handsome  profit.  If  it  were  any  one  but 
you,  Mr.  Kennett — to  speak  more  correctly,  if  it  were  any 
one  with  whose  family  we  had  had  less  friendly  relations 
in  the  past — we  should  not  hesitate  to  close  with  this  offer. 
Business  is  business,  and  I  find  no  justification  in  Coke  or 
Blackstone  for  admixing  it  with  sentiment.  I  think, 
however " 

"Might  I  ask  you,  sir,  who  made " 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Kennett,"  said  Jeacock,  with  a  reprov- 
ing smile,  "no,  no;  really,  my  dear  Mr.  Kennett,  you 
must  not  ask  me  to  divulge  professional  secrets.  Eh,  Mr. 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  193 

Wetherby?  We  have  no  authority  to  tell  you  that;  at 
present  our  client  does  not  wish  his  name  to  appear.  But 
we  are  ready  to  stretch  a  point  in  your  favour.  We'll  be 
generous,  and  give  you  a  week's  grace — there,  let  us  say  a 
fortnight's.  I'll  not  conceal  the  fact  that  we  run  a  grave 
risk  of  losing  money  by  doing  so." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  gentlemen,"  said  John,  hope- 
lessly. "I'm  sure  I'm  much  obliged  to  you " 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  And  possibly,  if  you  fail  to  ob- 
tain the  money  then — mind,  I  say  possibly,  not  probably 
— our  client  might  consent  to  retain  you  as  a  tenant.  I 
will  mention  the  matter,  and  shall  be  pleased  to  recommend 
you." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  sir,"  was  all  that  John  could 
say,  and  a  moment  later  he  found  himself  bowed  out. 

He  stood  half-dazed  in  the  street  again,  before  he  quite 
realised  how  abruptly  he  had  been  dismissed.  The  lawyers 
evidently  meant  to  treat  him  with  sympathy  and  kindli- 
ness, but  he  had  not  failed  to  notice  the  change  in  their 
manner.  An  acquaintance  passed  him,  and  turned  his 
head.  John,  unsuspicious,  hurried  after  him;  the  man 
responded  awkwardly  to  his  greeting,  and  took  the  first 
opportunity  of  making  his  escape.  The  news  of  his  loss 
in  the  bank  failure  seemed  to  have  spread;  even  old  friends, 
fearing  the  suggestion  of  a  loan,  shrank  into  themselves 
like  touched  tortoises  as  he  came  near.  He  went  to  the 
furniture  dealers,  and  soon  discovered  how  much  easier  it 
is  to  buy  than  sell.  His  last  hope  was  at  Sturry. 

The  Fords  welcomed  him  warmly  enough,  but  his  cousin 
saw  little  prospect  of  raising  sufficient  money  to  tide  him 
over  his  difficulties.  There  were  so  many  just  then  who 
were  breaking  up  their  homes — so  few  purchasers.  But 
Ford,  before  he  left  in  the  morning,  pressed  a  small  loan  on 
him,  which  John  refused  at  first,  and  then,  thinking  of  Bess, 
pocketed,  blushing  like  a  first  offender  caught  red-handed. 
13 


194  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

He  rode  home  slowly,  thinking  of  his  failure.  The  fort- 
night's grace  meant  only  a  little  longer  waiting  for  the 
sword  to  fall.  Who  had  made  the  offer  for  the  inn?  No 
other  innkeeper  at  Herne  Bay,  he  felt  certain.  Possibly 
some  man  with  capital,  who  foresaw  the  prosperity  on 
which  they  had  built  their  hopes,  and,  unlike  them,  could 
afford  to  wait  until  it  came.  It  would  be  very  galling  if 
this  man  stepped  in  and  reaped  the  profits  of  their  enter- 
prise. He  turned  over  a  few  names  in  his  mind,  but  at 
last  gave  up  the  problem  as  insoluble. 

John  led  Blossom  to  her  stall,  and  groomed  her  after 
the  journey.  He  was  in  no  hurry  to  tell  Bess  his  news. 
Poor  little  lass!  What  a  peck  of  troubles  she  had  bar- 
gained for,  unknowingly,  when  she  promised  to  take  him 
for  better  or  for  worse,  in  the  grey  old  church  at  Whitstable! 

Delilah  Gummer  came  into  the  yard  with  a  basket  of 
scraps  for  the  fowls.  She  was  red-eyed,  gloomy-browed, 
and  flung  the  food  inattentively  to  the  cluster  of  black 
Orpingtons  who  came  clucking  round,  their  red  combs 
wagging  like  poppies  in  a  wind.  She  greeted  her  master 
with  a  doleful  sigh,  and  eyed  him  as  if  exacting  a  question. 

"Good  morning,  'Lilah.     Is  your  missus  indoors?" 

"Yes,  she  be  indoors."      Another  sigh  of  deep  meaning. 

"Ask  Must'  George  if  he'd  mind  finishing  Blossom,  will 
'ee?" 

"  No,  I  won't  do  that,  Must'  John,  'cause  I  can't."  She 
took  a  dismal  pleasure  in  the  mystery,  and  the  disclosure 
she  was  on  the  point  of  making.  It  was  a  little  irritating 
that,  in  his  abstraction  of  mood,  John  had  not  noticed  the 
sniffs  and  sighs. 

"Won't?  Can't?"  John  turned  his  head.  "Why,  what's 
the  matter  now,  'Lilah?  Aren't  you  well?" 

"Oh,  I'm  well  enough,  Must'  John.  As  well  as  may  be, 
that  is.  Not  that  I  haven't  my  burdens  to  bear,  like  other 
folk,  with  such  a  stummick  as  runs  in  our  family,  but  I 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  195 

can't  grumble.  I've  always  had  that  and  I  always  will  till 
my  dying  day,  but  I  know  how  to  endure  it  and  be  thank- 
ful, praise  God."  She  groaned  again. 

"Well,  if  it  ain't  the  goose  you  had  yesterday,  I  suppose 
you've  been  talking  about  religion  again  with  Must' 
George.  You  won't  convart  him  by  quarrelling  and  then 
not  speaking  for  hours,  though.  Go  and  give  him  my 
message,  there's  a  good  woman." 

"Good  woman,  Must'  John!  There's  some  as  may  be 
in  this  house,  and  some  as  may  not — leaving  women  out 
of  the  question,  as  they'd  better  be  left  out,  poor  souls, 
out  of  the  world  too,  I  should  think,  with  all  respect;  for 
what  on  earth  God  made  Eve  for  I  can't  humbly  imagine. 
Ah" — with  a  deep-drawn  sigh — "true  enough,  as  Job  says, 
we'm  born  to  trouble,  'specially  them  as  has  pretty  faces, 
which  are  but  a  delusion  and  a  snare." 

John  looked  in  bewilderment  at  Delilah's  face,  with  its 
jagged  fringe  of  carrot-red  hair,  the  small,  red-rimmed 
eyes,  the  freckled  features  on  which  squeezed-out  tears 
had  traced  channels  through  the  grime  of  the  morning's 
house-work.  Once  or  twice,  when  in  high  spirits,  George 
had  pretended  to  pay  ardent  court  to  her.  It  was  not 
impossible  that  she  had  taken  some  of  his  recent  endear- 
ments too  seriously,  and  was  accusing  herself  of  fanciful 
sins  of  desire.  A  faint  smile  crept  over  John's  face. 

"Oh,  it's  not  me;  you  needn't  look  at  me  like  that, 
Must'  John.  Oh,  my,  it's  well  you've  come  back.  I  shan't 
never  forget  the  night  we've  had.  Oh,  the  wickedness  of 
the  world!  But  I  knowed  well  enough  what'd  come  from 
those  beliefs  of  his — 

"  '  From  thoughts  so  dreadful  and  profane 

Corrupt  discourse  proceeds, 
And  in  their  impious  hands  are  found 
Abominable  deeds — ' 

and  often  and  often  have  I  said  to  myself " 


196  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

"  What  is  the  matter?" 

"Ah,  you  may  well  ax  me!  Matter  enough,  Must'  John; 
but  doan't  say  I  spoke  a  word  before  you  told  me  to.  I 
suppose  your  poor  wife  upstairs  should  tell  you  if  any  one 
did,  poor  lamb — going  through  all  she  has " 

"What  are  you  rambling  on  about  now?"  John  asked, 
impatiently.  "Where's  your  mistress?" 

"Upstairs  in  bed  still,  and  the  best  place  for  her,  poor 

dear.  But  there "  She  stepped  in  front  of  him  as  he 

was  hurrying  indoors.  Delilah  had  no  mind  to  leave  the 
first  telling  of  her  story  to  any  other  tongue.  "  If  you  must 
have  it,  you  must,  so  there's  no  more  to  be  said.  Must' 
George  has  run  away." 

"  Run  away  ?    Whatever  do  you  mean  ? " 

"Just  what  I  say,  Must'  John,"  she  said,  standing  with 
arms  akimbo,  facing  him  in  the  doorway.  "Runned  away 
first  thing  this  morning.  And  time  enough  too.  Bursting 
into  missus's  bedroom!  Shouting  out  about  loving  her, 
and  taking  her  away  to  London " 

"What?  What?  Mr.  George?  I  don't  know  what  you're 
talking  of." 

"Don't  glare  at  me  like  that,  Must'  John,  it's  gospel 
truth  I'm  telling  you.  Oh,  don't  pinch  my  arm  so.  You 
hurt.  Yes,  he  did,  he  did," — she  was  gasping  now,  half- 
frightened  at  what  she  had  revealed,  and  its  effect — "I 
beared  him  myself — I  was  in  the  room — and  he  got  in ' 

"Bess!  Bess!"  Before  she  could  stop  him,  John  was 
springing  up  the  stairs,  three  at  a  stride.  He  burst  into 
his  wife's  room.  "Bess,  what's  this?  Is  Delilah  lying? 
Tell  me — tell  me.  Oh,  I  know  it's  true.  I  can  see  it's  true." 
A  glance  at  her  face  confirmed  the  story  without  words. 
He  paced  to  and  fro.  "Tell  me  all,  everything — every- 
thing! You  went  to  your  feyther's?  Yes?  And  he  prom- 
ised to  help  us?  Yes?  Well,  the  world's  beyond  me.  Go 
on,  go  on.  And  George  met  you,  and " 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  197 

Piece  by  piece,  he  drew  out  the  story. 

"And  you  were  engaged  to  him  before?  Oh,  he  asked 
you  not  to  say,  did  he?  Yes?  And  he's  been  living  under 
our  roof — and  plotting  and  scheming  all  this  while — my 
brother — my  only  brother!" 

He  was  silent  when  she  ended,  and  paced  up  and  down 
the  room. 

"John,  dear — my  dear  husband — we've  one  another; 
he's  gone " 

"Doan't  talk,  doan't  talk  now,  Bess.  My  own  brother! 
In  this  room,  too!  Oh,  let  me  think.  The  world's  all 
topsy-turvy,  seems  to  me.  Your  feyther  helps  us;  my 
brother " 

He  flung  open  the  window  suddenly,  as  if  the  air  was 
suffocating — perhaps  with  some  dim  sense  of  cleansing  it 
after  the  contamination  of  the  night.  In  this  room!  The 
room  where  his  father  had  knelt,  night  after  night,  morning 
after  morning,  for  help  to  lead  that  clean  and  manly  and 
simple  life  which  had  made  his  name  respected  and  his 
memory  loved.  The  room  where  his  mother  had  passed 
away,  curtseying  humbly  to  her  Maker  as  the  gates  of 
heaven  opened  at  the  sunset.  The  room  where,  by  her 
body,  Bess's  hand  had  first  stolen  into  his.  It  was  like  a 
nightmare,  the  thought  of  the  hours  that  had  so  recently 
sped  back  into  the  past.  While  he  was  sleeping  in  the 
lavender-scented  bed  at  Sturry,  all  this  had  been  happen- 
ing— George  slinking  like  a  thief  towards  the  room,  forcing 
open  the  door  against  their  strength 

"Curse  him!"  he  broke  out,  suddenly.  "May  God's 
curse  follow  him  for  this  night's  work!  Love — he  love  you! 
Why  didn't  he  go  away  before?  Oh,  why  didn't  he  go? 
I  treated  him  well,  lass,  I  did;  I  treated  him  fairly;  all 
that  I  had  I  shared.  And  he — oh,  if  you'd  married  him, 
and  I'd  loved  you  ever  so,  if  you'd  loved  me,  even,  I'd  never 
have  tempted  you  from  your  duty.  And  yet — if  it'd  break 


198  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

my  heart,  I'd  rather  you'd  have  gone  than  keep  on  living 
with  one  you  didn't  love.  That  must  be  hell  on  earth. 
But  not  to  go  with  another!  Not  to  sin  against  God!  We 
could  part  with  clean  hearts.  And  he  said  you  loved  him? 
It  was  him  you  always  loved?  Bess,  look  at  me — look 
straight  in  my  eyes.  The  truth,  now,  if  it's  to  break  my 
heart.  Were  you — do  you,  the  least  bit " 

His  eyes  fell  before  her  clear,  direct  glance.  "Oh,  lass, 
lass,  I  doan't  know  what's  coming  over  me,"  he  said,  mis- 
erably. "I  can't  trust  any  one,  seemingly.  But  I  won't 
ask  it,  lass.  I  won't  ask  you."  He  caught  her  suddenly 
in  his  arms,  crushing  her  to  him  until  she  could  have  cried 
out  with  the  fierce  pain  of  the  embrace.  "Oh,  God,  lass — 
my  little  lass — if  I'd  thought  I'd  lost  you!  If  I  thought 
for  one  moment  that  you  didn't  love  me  still!  But  I  didn't 
ask — I  wouldn't  ask — because  I  knew.  You're  all  the  world 
to  me,  and  God's  too  kind  to  take  your  love  away." 

"And  you're  my  world  to  me,  John,  you  know  you  are," 
she  whispered.  "Oh,  I  wanted  you  so  last  night!" 

"Yes,  yes,  but  he's  gone  now.  I  didn't  never  think  I'd 
live  to  be  glad  of  that — my  own  brother,  him  that  was 
nursed  at  the  same  breast,  and  clutched  me  round  the 
waist  many  a  night  in  bed  when  we  were  tiny  little  chaps 
and  the  sky  was  all  split  up  with  lightning,  and  the  great 
seas — well,  he's  gone,  and  we've  got  each  other.  But  if  I 
see  him  again — if  he  comes  back — though  he's  my  own 
brother!"  His  fists  clenched  and  unclenched  slowly. 
"And  I  said  the  Lord's  Prayer  this  morning,"  he  muttered, 
"'Forgive  us  our  trespasses,  as  we  forgive' — but  it's  hard, 
too  hard  for  me,  that!" 

In  the  afternoon  John  went  to  Eddington  to  thank 
Roger  Huntingdon  for  his  help.  But  for  the  incidents  of  the 
night  and  his  experiences  at  Canterbury  the  previous  day, 
he  would  have  welcomed  it  with  unreflecting  and  uncrit- 
ical gratitude.  Now  he  began  to  search  for  motives — an 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  199 

attitude  of  mind  hitherto  foreign  to  him.  Why  had  Hunt- 
ingdon relented  so  suddenly  ?  Why,  after  his  terrible  curse, 
had  he  proved  so  ready  to  help  them  when  the  curse  seemed 
likely  to  be  fulfilled? 

Bess  had  kept  the  ten  guineas  in  her  room — fortunately, 
for  they  found  that,  before  leaving,  George  had  helped 
himself  to  money  from  the  till. 

"I'll  take  the  gold  with  me,  Bess,"  said  John,  "in  case 
I  think  I  ought  to  give  it  back.  It'll  depend  on  what  he 
says  or  does.  I  can't  understand  it.  Is  there  anything 
behind,  I  wonder?  Oh,  I  won't  give  it  back  unless  I  feel 
obliged  to,  lass;  trust  me  for  that.  But — oh,  I  don't 
know.  This  world  queers  me,  it  does." 

Huntingdon  was  near  the  house,  booted  and  spurred; 
he  had  just  been  riding  through  his  fields.  The  retriever 
which  had  barked  at  Bess,  and  then  given  her  her  first  and 
heartiest  welcome  to  the  house,  rushed  out  growling  as 
John  drew  near,  and  stood  a  few  feet  from  him,  snarling, 
and  baring  its  teeth  savagely.  Huntingdon  called  it  to 
heel.  It  had  not  escaped  his  notice  that  his  visitor  had 
not  flinched  before  its  onset.  His  small,  keen  eyes,  browed 
so  heavily,  had  been  watching  for  the  slightest  shade  of  fear. 

"To  heel,  Caesar,"  he  called,  sharply.  "He's  not  partial 
to  visitors,  my  dog.  Short  shrift  to  any  one  who  hangs 
round  the  farm  when  he's  off  his  chain  and  I'm  not  near 
to  call  him  back."  He  stooped  down  and  patted  the  brute's 
shaggy  coat.  "A  useful  animal  in  these  days,  when  the 
roads  are  full  of  beggars  and  desperate  men." 

John  wondered  whether  the  last  words  veiled  a  taunt. 

"Well,  you  want  to  see  me?" 

"I  wanted  to  see  you,  yes,  Mr.  Huntingdon.  Bess — 
my  wife " 

Huntingdon's  eyelids  flickered. 

" has  just  told  me  about  coming  to  see  you  yester- 
day. I  knowed  nothing  of  her  coming,  and  I  don't  know, 


200  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

sir,  as  I'd  have  let  her  if  I  had.  Yet  we've  found  our  best 
friend  in  one  we  least  expected  help  from,  and  I  came  to 
thank " 

"You  thought  it  unlikely  a  father'd  save  his  daughter 
from  disgrace,  eh  ? " 

"Not  disgrace,  sir — no  disgrace  is  there  in  misfortune; 
but  from  misfortune,  yes,  I  did.  I  see  I  did  you  an  injus- 
tice, sir,  by  thinking  hard  thoughts  about  you.  And  I 
came  to  beg  your  pardon,  and  to  thank  you." 

"You  needn't  thank  me.  But  come  inside,  into  the 
house;  we'll  talk  there." 

As  he  led  the  way,  the  farmer  pointed  with  his  whip  to 
the  portraits  on  the  walls. 

"See  them?"  he  asked,  abruptly.  "My  grandfather 
there;  and  that's  my  great-grandfather;  and  that's  a 
Huntingdon  who  fought  in  King  Charles's  wars.  All  my 
folk,  for  more  than  two  hundred  years — though  there's 
two  or  three  missing;  those  blanks  are  left  for  them.  Your 
wife  comes  of  good  stock,  you  see.  Well,  I  can't  have  her 
starving  by  the  roadside." 

It  was  gall  and  wormwood  to  John — as,  no  doubt,  his 
father-in-law  meant  it — this  hint  as  to  Bess's  fate.  Little 
had  he  thought  on  that  marriage  day — on  that  night  when 
Huntingdon  came  raving  and  cursing  to  the  inn — that  so 
soon  he  would  be  taunted  with  what  would  be  the  fact,  or 
at  least  the  prospect,  if  he  declined  his  help.  John's  fin- 
gers itched  at  the  guineas  in  his  pocket. 

Huntingdon  watched  his  face  change  colour  to  an  angrier 
red,  and  gave  a  grim  chuckle. 

"There,  there — trade's  bad,  I  suppose — eh,  what? 
You've  not  done  so  well  as  you  expected?  I'm  hit  a  little 
myself  by  this  bank  failure — a  little."  He  broke  off  with 
startling  irrelevancy.  "Look  at  that  woman  over  there," 
he  said.  "See?  With  the  blue  satin  and  the  roses — Lely 
painted  her,  if  you've  ever  heard  of  him;  and  she's  worth 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  201 

— well,  more  than  the  Running  Horse,  I  suppose."  John's 
glance  followed  the  pointing  whip;  he  saw  a  pretty,  dim- 
pled face,  with  some  hint  of  Bess  in  the  eyes — sadder  eyes, 
though,  wistful  and  lonely  eyes,  that  seemed  to  hold  mem- 
ories of  many  happy  faces  all  vanished  now,  while  hers 
still  lived  on  canvas  for  other  generations  to  look  at,  and 
wonder  over.  Huntingdon  stood  before  the  portrait  for  a 
few  moments  without  speaking.  "She's  only  just  come 
back,"  he  said,  at  last.  "Ambs-ace  lost  her;  sink  cater 
won  her  again.  Diced  for,  and  I  got  her  back  with  the 
dice.  Money  wouldn't  buy  her,  so  I  played  for  her;  though 
that's  a  game  I  don't  affect  without  an  object.  .  .  .  Well, 
why  don't  you  sit  down?  Molly,"  he  shouted  to  the  maid, 
"bring  in  some  wine."  While  it  was  being  brought  he 
stood  straddle-legged,  his  hands  deep  in  the  pockets  of  his 
breeches,  and  eyed  his  guest  with  a  queer,  quizzical  smile, 
his  mouth  twisting.  There  may  have  been  a  threat  meant 
in  the  illustration  of  the  stubbornness  with  which  he  set 
himself  to  achieve  any  object  he  had  fixed  his  heart  upon; 
John,  scarcely  suspecting  it,  felt  vague  uneasiness  at  the 
smile  and  the  irrelevancy  of  the  words.  "Yes,  I'm  only  a 
gamester  when  it  suits  me,  or  when  it  pleases  me,"  he 
went  on.  "No  wine?  Oh,  yes;  and  we'll  say  what  we 
have  to  say  over  it.  You've  come  to  your  last  shift,  I  see; 
and  there's  a  blank  wall  ahead.  Well,  well."  Hunting- 
don flung  himself  into  a  chair  and  thrummed  on  the  table 
with  his  finger  tips.  "  You've  been  married — what  ? — fifteen 
months;  less  than  that."  The  devil's  tattoo  went  on. 
"And  so,"  he  continued,  at  last,  "you've  come  to  me  for 
help."  John  began  to  speak,  but  the  farmer  silenced  him 
with  a  gesture.  "I  know,  I  know,  your  wife  did;  it's  the 
same  thing.  Well,  I  made  her  an  offer  which  she  declined; 
but  I'll  make  it  now  to  you.  I'll  take  the  mortgage  over — 
I'll  tear  up  the  deed,  or  give  it  back  to  you,  on  one  condi- 
tion. I've  not  forgotten,  and  forgiveness  is  child's  talk. 


202  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

I  can't  annul  the  marriage;  I'd  do  that  if  I  could,  as  you 
know;  we'll  have  no  misunderstanding.  But  there  you've 
bettered  me.  That's  a  trump  I  can't  beat,  save  by  running 
my  neck  in  a  halter,  and  I've  no  intention  of  doing  that. 
But  the  inn's  yours  again — inn,  and  furniture,  and  money 
to  tide  over  the  bad  times — we'll  settle  how  much,  and 
then  there'll  be  more  if  it's  wanted — on  one  condition." 

"And  that?"  asked  John,  with  dry  lips. 

"You  must  send  your  wife  back  home  again.  She  must 
live  here,  say  no  word  to  you,  never  enter " 

John  thrust  his  hand  into  his  pocket  without  a  word, 
clutched  the  guineas,  brought  them  out  in  a  closed  fist, 
and  opened  his  hand  again,  leaving  a  glittering  pile  on  the 
table. 

"That's  my  answer  to  your  condition,  Must'  Hunting- 
don," he  said.  "It'd  take  even  more  than  my  father's 
and  mother's  home " 

"Well,  well,  that's  all  said.  I  was — I  expected  your 
answer.  Keep  the  money.  It's  a  stake  in  a  way;  the  gam- 
bling fever's  not  quit  of  my  bones  altogether.  I  can't  af- 
ford, in  these  times,  to  give  you  the  clean  sheet  again. 
But  I'll  keep  my  word  with — with  Bess."  He  smiled, 
showing  all  his  teeth,  as  if  suddenly  the  actor's  mask  were 
stripped  off — the  mask  of  resentment,  of  satire,  of  malice, 
showing,  beneath,  a  genial  and  human  face.  "  You'll  have  a 
quarter's  grace  and  those  guineas  to  play  with.  If  you  win, 
good.  If  you  lose — come,  put  the  money  in  your  pocket. 
The  mortgage  will  be  mine  whatever  you  say  or  do." 

John  hesitated.     When  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  husky. 

"I— I  can't  understand  you,  Mr.  Huntingdon,"  he  said. 

"There  aren't  many  folk  hereabouts  who  can,"  said 
Huntingdon,  and,  after  a  pause,  gave  a  short  laugh,  like 
a  dog's  bark  broken  off  abruptly. 

"I  can't  at  all,"  said  John.  "One  minute  you  talk  as  if 
you  want  to  make  me  feel — feel  how  much  we're  in  your 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  203 

hands,  and  how  fate's  dealt  with  us.  Because  it  wasn't  in 
the  nature  of  things  that  we  should  have  had  such  a  run  of 
bad  fortune.  Some  of  the  words  you  said  at  first — though 
you  may  not  have  thought  or  meant  it — cut  me  like  a 
whip.  And  all  the  time  you  meant  to  help  us.  I  can't 
understand  it;  but  then  I'm  not  used  to  gentlefolks'  ways. 
You  mean  kindly  now,  I'm  sure.  And  you  act  kindly.  I 
—we  thank  you,  I'm  sure;  we  thank  you  from  the  bottom 
of  our  hearts." 

He  rose,  and  stretched  out  his  great  hand.  Huntingdon 
put  his  own  into  it,  a  hand  dry  and  gripless,  and  saw  his 
visitor  to  the  gate. 

He  stood  watching  him  for  a  few  seconds,  with  the 
strange,  quizzical  look  still  in  his  eyes.  Then  he  gave  a 
broken  and  mirthless  laugh,  and  turned  back  into  the  house. 

"I've  a  dash  of  your  blood  in  me  after  all,  you  see,"  he 
muttered,  standing  under  the  portrait  of  his  father.  "Well, 
the  cards  are  dealt  again." 


CHAPTER   XV 

RED  dawn  was  in  the  sky,  and  early  labourers  were 
creeping  to  their  work,  when  George  Kennett  entered 
Canterbury.  It  was  a  chill  autumn  morning;  he  had  an 
hour  or  so  to  wait  before  the  coach  started,  and  spent  the 
time  miserably  enough,  pacing  the  almost  empty  High 
Street  in  order  to  keep  his  blood  in  circulation,  and  dwell- 
ing, unwillingly,  on  each  incident  of  the  night.  At  last 
other  passengers  began  to  assemble  with  their  luggage  in 
the  yard  of  the  inn;  the  coach-office  opened;  George  se- 
cured an  outside  place,  and  snatched  a  hasty  breakfast 
before  the  horn  gave  the  signal  for  departure. 

Thank  heaven,  they  were  away  at  last. 

Ostlers  stepped  aside;  chickens  scurried  before  the 
wheels;  dogs  barked;  the  buxom  woman  in  the  little 
wooden  office  waved  a  farewell.  They  clattered  through 
the  ancient  streets  into  open  country.  His  fellow-travellers 
were  laughing  and  jesting,  in  high  spirits;  the  burly,  red- 
faced  driver,  living  up  to  his  reputation  as  a  wag,  kept 
them  in  a  constant  roar  over  his  sallies.  It  was  not  long 
before  George's  silence  attracted  his  attention.  After 
fruitless  attempts  to  excite  a  smile  or  elicit  some  sign  of 
appreciation,  he  began  to  turn  his  wit  against  his  gloomy 
fare,  with  sly  winks  at  the  other  passengers.  George  was 
too  much  occupied  at  first  with  his  own  thoughts  to  heed 
this,  and  gave  short  replies  to  any  of  his  companions  who 
ventured  to  address  him.  Before  long  he  was  left  to  his 
own  bitter  reflections,  made  none  the  more  pleasant  by 
the  laughter  and  animated  talk  which  greeted  each  incident 
of  the  road. 

They  clattered  into  Sittingbourne  and  out  again;  Roches- 
ter, with  its  grey  castle  and  cathedral,  was  left  behind;  at 

204 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  205 

the  Jolly  Knight  on  Gadshill  the  horses  were  watered, 
and  George  snatched  time  for  a  hasty  drink.  The  air,  the 
rapid  motion,  the  flying  woods  and  orchards  and  hop- 
fields,  roused  him  at  last  from  his  dejection.  He  began  to 
take  a  languid  interest  now  in  the  little  Kentish  villages 
through  which  they  clattered,  and  had  eyes  for  the  red- 
cheeked  maids  who,  here  and  there,  waited  by  the  wayside 
for  the  coach,  to  take  parcels  from  the  guard,  or  to  send 
messages  to  lovers  in  other  hamlets  or  in  the  great  city — 
though  he  was  reminded  of  the  loss  which  his  own  folly  had 
brought  to  him.  Bess  had  been  all;  and  now  was  but  a 
bitter  memory.  He  wondered  what  had  happened  since 
his  going.  He  pictured  John's  return,  his  anger  at  the 
news,  and  saw  them  sitting  down  to  their  midday  meal 
without  him,  perhaps  even  with  relief  that  he  had  gone. 
Vainly,  at  first,  he  tried  to  stir  up  ambition  to  fill  the 
place  which  love  had  held.  The  wide  world  was  before 
him  now.  He  was  his  own  master  at  last,  responsible  to 
no  man.  Before,  when  he  had  gone  out  to  see  and  to  con- 
quer the  world,  it  had  been  as  a  young  soldier  under  orders 
and  surveillance,  the  slave  of  any  whim  of  his  sergeants 
and  his  officers.  Now  he  was  nearly  ten  years  older;  he 
had  all  his  knowledge  of  life  to  aid  him,  and  could  go  his 
way  without  any  one  to  direct  or  hinder.  He  tried  to  as- 
sure himself  that  he  was  going  to  fill  the  place  which  the 
distraught  kingdom,  clamouring  for  a  man,  promised  to 
the  daring  and  the  efficient.  But  these  dreams  seemed 
stale  and  unprofitable  now  that  he  was  actually  in  quest 
of  the  realities.  How  should  he  set  to  work  ?  What  should 
he  do?  And,  without  Bess,  where  would  be  the  profit  of 
all  his  conquests?  None  the  less,  he  began  to  long  for  the 
end  of  his  journey  and  the  brisk  stir  and  stimulating 
influences  of  the  great  city  towards  which  he  was  hasten- 
ing. Self-reproach  grew  less  insistent  under  the  healing 
influences  of  the  quiet  countryside  and  the  sensation  of 


206  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

rapid  transit  which,  above  everything,  suited  at  this  time 
with  his  mood.  Milestone  after  milestone  passed;  they 
left  Cobham  behind  them,  saw  the  tower  of  Chalk  Church, 
the  river  winding  in  the  distance  beyond  the  low  fields, 
the  barge-sails  creeping  along  the  sky's  edge;  skirted 
Swanscomb  Park,  through  lovely  scenery;  clattered  in  and 
out  of  Crayford;  and  at  last,  at  Blackheath,  drew  near  to 
the  beginnings  of  London.  His  spirits  rose  higher  as  New 
Cross  turnpike  came  in  view  and  was  left  behind.  By  this 
time,  without  joining  in,  he  had  listened  with  some  inter- 
est to  the  talk  of  his  companions.  A  little,  rusty  Londoner 
was  discussing  the  condition  of  England  with  his  neigh- 
bour, a  burly  Kentish  yeoman.  Both  were  emphatic  in  their 
condemnation  of  matters  in  town  and  country;  the  king- 
dom was  going  to  the  dogs;  from  all  parts  came  the  same 
cry  of  distress  and  disaffection.  "It  may  be  disloyal," 
said  the  rusty  man,  speaking  for  the  city,  "but  what  I  say 
is  things  can't  go  on  like  this — I  don't  care  who  hears  me 
say  it,  either — the  people  won't  stand  it  much  longer. 
You'd  think  there'd  be  some  man  in  England  to  put  things 
straight.  Castlereagh " 

The  name  brought  a  low-muttered  oath  from  the  coun- 
tryman; others  chimed  in.  Every  one  agreed  that  the 
condition  of  the  country  called  for  some  desperate  remedy; 
opinions  differed  as  to  the  method  and  the  man.  Several 
names  were  discussed:  Burdett,  Lord  Cochrane,  Cobbett, 
and  old  Major  Cartwright  were  mentioned  in  turn,  and 
lauded  or  attacked. 

"  'Unt's  the  man  I  swear  by,  now,"  said  the  little  cock- 
ney. "  'Enery  'Unt.  'E's  a  man,  now;  'e  is  a  man.  Soon 
make  a  clean  sweep  of  all  this " 

"  Hunt  ? "  interrupted  another  man,  contemptuously.  "  A 
fellow  who  wouldn't  illuminate  for  British  victories!  Why, 
he  put  a  candle  in  every  window  in  that  cottage  of  his  in 
Hampshire  when  Boney  escaped.  That's  not  the  fellow 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  207 

we  want.  I'd  not  back  up  any  one  who  didn't  stand  by 
our  soldiers  against  the  French.  Not  me.  I'm  British,  I 
am,  to  the  backbone,  and  it's  only  a  true  Briton  I'll  vote 
for  to  get  us  out  of  this  hole.  I'll  tell  you  who  is  the  man, 
though." 

"Who?"  asked  a  chorus  of  voices. 

But  at  that  moment  the  driver  pulled  up  his  leaders  on 
their  haunches  to  avoid  running  down  a  herd  of  bullocks, 
which  were  being  harried  along  the  Kent  Road  into  Lon- 
don. The  outside  passengers  craned  forward  to  see  the 
catastrophe  or  the  escape.  With  a  flick  of  his  whip  the 
coachman  drove  an  errant  beast  into  the  kennel. 

"Who?"  repeated  the  city  man,  as  they  resumed  their 
seats.  "Who's  a  better  man  than  'Unt,  now?  Let's  'ave 
his  name." 

His  lips  shaped  themselves  to  snap  a  rejoinder  directly 
the  name  was  given. 

"Well,  I  could  give  you  a  dozen  better  than  Hunt. 
Hunt,  indeed!  Ever  see  him?  ever  hear  him?  Well,  I 
have.  And  he's  just  such  a  man  as  that  butcher  there — 
same  build,  and  same-looking  man.  Just  about  as  fit  to 
drive  the  ship  o'  state — coach  of  state,  if  you  like — as  that 
man  is  to  manage  his  bullocks.  All  very  well  to  keep  a 
tavern,  say,  but  to  manage  England " 

"Well,  tell  us  who  your  man  is." 

The  answer  was  finally  lost,  for  at  that  moment  the  coach 
came  to  a  halt  before  the  Bricklayers'  Arms,  and  the  poli- 
tician, rising  suddenly  to  collect  his  luggage,  was  jerked 
down  again  so  violently  by  the  stoppage  that  the  name 
was  snapped  short  between  his  teeth. 

George  got  down.  There  was  no  doubt,  then,  of  the 
truth  of  the  rumours  that  had  drifted  to  the  quiet  hamlet 
by  the  sea.  Town  and  country  were  alike  dissatisfied, 
waiting  for  a  deliverer.  On  the  coach,  natives  of  the  rural 
districts  and  natives  of  the  "great  Wen,"  as  Cobbett  had 


208  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

called  this  city  George  was  entering,  had  agreed  on  that, 
however  else  they  differed.  And  the  countryside  told  its 
own  story.  The  coach  had  passed,  that  day,  through  some 
of  the  richest  land  in  England.  Nature  held  out  every  in- 
ducement for  prosperity  and  contentment  to  dwell  there. 
Yet  in  the  villages  George  had  seen  pinched  and  haggard 
faces;  dirty,  ragged  children  whining  for  bread;  men  and 
women  with  lowering  faces  because  of  the  distress  they 
could  not  understand  but  had  to  suffer.  And  every  man 
had  his  theory,  his  own  dim  notion  of  the  thing  that  lay 
beneath  this  poverty,  and  was  causing  it.  "The  wars," 
said  some.  "Why  should  we  have  spent  all  this  money, 
fighting  other  people's  battles,  instead  of  defending  our 
own  sea-frontiers,  and  letting  the  foreigners  cut  each  other's 
throats  as  they  chose?"  National  defence,  too — how 
senselessly,  even  over  this,  had  money  been  squandered: 
on  the  chain  of  useless  towers  along  the  coast;  on  the  mili- 
tary canal — as  if  the  French,  who  had  crossed  the  broad 
rivers  of  Europe,  could  cover  twenty  miles  of  sea  in  safety, 
and  then  be  held  in  check  by  a  paltry  ditch!  "Paper 
money,"  said  others;  "Private  ownership  of  the  land," 
said  a  third  body;  while  many  laid  the  blame  on  the  Prince 
and  the  royal  family,  living  in  luxury,  spending  the  hardly- 
earned  money  of  the  people  on  selfish  indulgence.  But 
one  thing  was  very  clear  among  all  the  confusion.  Eng- 
land was  calling  in  her  misery  for  a  man,  to  take  all  these 
threads  into  his  hands — to  join  town  and  country,  to 
weave  into  warp  and  woof  the  scattered  filaments  of  dis- 
affection, to  unite  and  discipline  her  enormous,  yet  unre- 
alised strength,  and  bring  back  the  days  of  her  pros- 
perity. 

George  Kennett,  come  to  conquer  London — to  be  the 
Buonaparte  of  England — stood  on  the  cobbles,  with  his 
bundle  at  his  feet.  His  task  had  seemed  easy  enough  in 
dreams.  Now,  with  the  miles  of  brick  and  stone  in  front 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  209 

of  him,  the  people  who  were  to  rally  round  him  jostling 
him  as  they  passed — now,  in  the  face  of  fact,  he  felt  the 
chilling  shock  of  disillusion.  For  some  time  he  stood  there, 
watching  the  ever-passing  crowds.  After  a  glass  at  the 
inn,  he  walked  onwards  towards  the  city.  Dark  and  nar- 
row lanes  opened  into  that  great  highway  leading  from 
leafy  Kent;  each  alley  discharged  unruly  hordes  of  un- 
washed, uncombed,  tattered  men  and  women,  and  chil- 
dren prematurely  old;  oaths  and  shrieks  and  ribald  jests 
saluted  him;  some,  seeing  the  marks  of  the  country  in  his 
clothing  and  sun-tanned  cheeks,  jeered  as  they  elbowed 
him  aside.  Dingy  shops  lined  the  way;  but  many  were 
untenanted,  and  those  that  had  customers  sold  only  the 
barest  necessaries  of  life.  The  gin-houses,  indeed,  were 
thronged,  for  round  them  revolved,  then  as  now,  the  vi- 
cious circle  of  poverty  following  drink,  drink  following 
poverty.  There  was  a  sordidness  and  squalor  in  this  town 
poverty  which  seemed  missing  from  the  country  districts, 
where  at  least  were  clean  air,  sunshine,  breezes  laden  with 
salt,  or  the  odours  of  garden  and  field  and  woodland.  It 
was  so  long  since  he  had  been  in  London — and  then  only 
for  a  day  or  two — that  the  numbers  appalled  and  repelled 
him.  They  were  like  warrens,  those  alleys  and  courts, 
teeming  with  life  that  hovered  on  the  brink  of  death. 

He  passed  London  Bridge,  and,  through  lines  of  offices, 
where  soberly  and  well-clad  clerks  bustled  to  and  fro  about 
their  work,  tramped  on  to  Fleet  Street.  Here  he  found 
an  inn.  The  money  he  had  taken  from  the  till,  added  to 
his  own,  would  last  him  for  some  weeks;  he  would  be  able 
to  look  about  him,  and  see  something  of  the  capital.  But 
with  the  fall  of  darkness  his  spirits  fell;  he  was  lonely, 
miserable,  and  tired;  he  went  to  bed  directly  he  had  fin- 
ished his  supper — though  not  to  sleep.  For  with  the  snuff- 
ing of  the  rushlight  came  a  great  horror  of  darkness  and 
his  sin;  his  mind  was  too  active  to  lose  itself  in  uncon- 
14 


210  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

sciousness,  and  when  he  slept  at  last,  he  dreamt  not   of 
his  ambitions  but  his  loss. 

The  morning  sun  found  him  ashamed  of  night  fears  and 
miseries.  After  breakfast,  he  sat  watching  the  passing 
crowds  from  a  window  which  framed  part  of  Fleet  Street, 
like  a  busy  stage.  Over  a  pipe  he  tried  to  make  some  plans 
for  his  campaign.  If  only  he  had  more  money!  But  he 
had  health,  will,  he  told  himself,  and  youth.  With  these 
to  help  him,  a  man,  he  had  often  bragged,  could  do  anything 
in  the  wide  world  he  set  his  mind  to.  It  pleased  him, 
thrilled  him,  to  think  of  himself  sitting  there  as  a  con- 
spirator against  the  State;  perhaps  history  would  tell,  one 
day,  of  this  solitary  journey  to  London — point  out  the  inn 
he  stayed  at,  this  very  room — picture  him  brooding  here, 
pipe  in  mouth — as  they  told  stories  now  of  Napoleon  in 
poverty  and  insignificance.  He  laid  out  his  money  in  a 
row  before  him;  these  guineas  were  his  sinews  of  war. 
And  Buonaparte,  they  said,  had  been  worse  off  once — not 
able  to  pay  a  paltry  washing-bill,  at  one  time.  London 
knew  nothing  of  the  man  who  sat  watching  it  from  the 
little  window.  Poverty,  competence,  wealth,  passed  be- 
fore his  eyes,  in  ignorance  that  one,  whose  name  all  Eng- 
land would  know  soon,  weaved  his  plots  behind  the  dusty 
glass.  His  mind  wandered  off  on  wild  quests;  in  the  blue 
tobacco-clouds  he  saw  pageants,  ceremonies,  palaces  of 
smoke.  The  vainest  and  most  foolish  dreams!  Now  he 
was  in  the  King's  state-coach,  all  heavy  gold,  with  the 
eight  white  Hanoverians  drawing  it,  on  his  way  to  his  coro- 
nation at  Westminster.  The  multitudes  were  cheering, 
tossing  their  caps  in  air,  as  they  hailed  him  as  their  King 
and  their  deliverer;  on  either  side  presenting  troops  kept 
the  way;  the  clamour  of  bands,  and  trumpets,  and  saluting 
guns  was  in  his  ears.  He  heard  the  pealing  organ  as  he 
marched  through  the  Cathedral  towards  the  Coronation 
Chair  of  England's  Kings.  Were  Napoleon's  dreams  wilder 


RUNNING    HORSE   INN  211 

than  these?  And  then  the  scene  changed  rapidly;  he  was 
in  the  field,  leading  victorious  armies  against  a  foreign  foe; 
on  the  poop  of  a  flagship,  with  the  wooden  walls  of  Britain 
round  him,  her  white  cliffs  gleaming  between  blue  sky  and 
sea;  guns  thundered  out  their  salutes  to  the  returning 
conqueror;  he  was  marching  in  triumph  through  his  cap- 
ital, the  guards — his  guards — in  new  uniforms  and  wearing 
sprigs  of  laurel,  the  captured  cannon  garlanded.  Now  he 
was  dispensing  charity  with  a  lavish  hand,  rendering  little 
kindnesses  which  mean  so  much  from  a  King;  and  now 
humbling  the  pride  of  some  haughty  monarch,  who,  taunt- 
ing him  with  his  origin,  paid  for  his  folly  in  ravished  land 
and  scattered  armies. 

"You'b  dud  breakfast,  I  subbose?  I  cad  clear  away, 
thed.  And  you  didd't  ought  to  smoke  id  here,  you  dow." 

It  was  the  maid-of-all-work  at  the  inn,  sleepy-eyed  al- 
ready after  work  begun  in  the  early  hours  of  the  morning; 
a  slatternly  girl  who  suffered  from  a  chronic  cold  and  an 
aggressive  temper.  She  whisked  up  the  greasy  plates, 
and,  eyeing  him  resentfully,  brushed  away  some  ash  which 
had  fallen  on  the  cloth. 

"There's  a  roob  dowdstairs,"  she  continued,  before  he 
had  recovered  sufficiently  from  the  fall  from  his  dizzy 
heights  to  attempt  an  answer.  "There's  sub  ladies  cubbid 
dowd  to  breakfast,  and  they  wod't  like  that  smell  with 
their  hab  ad  eggs."  George,  without  a  word,  took  himself 
and  his  pipe  to  the  lower  room,  where  the  passing  crowds 
could  not  be  seen.  The  barred  window  looked  out  on  to 
a  shabby  court,  littered  with  barrels  and  crates  and  trolleys; 
its  only  occupants  were  a  stray  cat,  and  two  or  three  lads 
daubed  with  ink  from  a  printing  office  in  the  court. 

He  went  out  at  last,  and  spent  his  day  roaming  about 
London.  Its  vastness  startled  him.  Vague  dreams  were 
easier  than  work;  day  after  day  passed,  and  he  was  still 
no  nearer  the  achievement  of  his  ends.  With  money  in  his 


212  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

pockets,  the  attractions  of  the  capital,  after  his  quiet  life 
at  the  inn,  proved  irresistible;  he  visited  the  sights  and 
the  theatres,  and  wasted  many  hours  watching  the  busy 
groups  round  the  clock-turret  in  the  Fleet  Market,  chatting 
to  the  prisoners  at  the  grating  of  the  Fleet,  and  envying 
the  well-dressed  crowd  in  the  parks,  where  the  "Prince 
Regent's  Bomb" — a  cannon  brought  from  Cadiz — was  just 
then  a  centre  of  attraction. 

One  evening  he  was  in  the  West  End — the  camp  of  the 
enemy,  where  the  privileged  and  titled  classes  lived— 
when  a  stream  of  carriages,  and  a  mob  of  hooting  people 
running  alongside,  attracted  his  attention.  He  eyed  with 
resentment  the  fine  coaches,  the  footmen  in  their  gay 
liveries,  the  women  in  rich  dresses  and  jewels  lolling  at 
their  ease,  and  the  well-groomed  horses,  pampered  and  fed 
when  so  many  human  beings  starved.  The  carriages  drew 
up  before  a  house  with  a  colonnade  in  front  of  it,  similar 
to  that  at  Carlton  House. 

"What  is  it?"  George  asked.    "Whose  house  is  that?" 

"Some  lord  or  other's,  I  suppose,"  answered  a  man  near 
him.  "They  say  the  Prince  is  coming." 

George,  taller  than  the  rest,  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  red 
carpet  flung  down,  and  powdered  flunkeys  waiting  in  the 
portico. 

"  Dunno  if  you  aren't  bigger  fools  than  me,  if  you  want 
to  see  him,"  another  man  said,  with  a  low  growl.  "I've  a 
wife  and  children  starving  at  home,  and  I'm  just  going 
back  to  them  after  the  first  job  I've  had  for  weeks — and 
here  I  can't  get  through  because  of  this  gaping  crowd. 
Nice  thing  to  be  hustled  back,  neck  and  crop,  and  made  to 
wait  for  his  convenience.  I  don't  care  who  hears  me.  Here 
he  comes,  and  G — d  damn  him  for  a  wastrel!" 

Peering  over  the  heads  of  the  crowd,  George  saw,  not 
the  Prince,  but  a  group  of  brilliantly  clad  men  escorting 
and  carrying  a  sedan  chair,  from  which  a  lady  with 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  213 

towering  ostrich  plumes  in  her  head-dress  alighted,  and 
entered  the  house.  Several  other  chairs  followed.  Faint 
cheers  greeted  the  newcomers.  "The  Queen!  Princess 
Augusta!  Princess  Elizabeth!"  They  had  just  come  from 
the  Queen's  Palace,  but  the  Regent  had  not  yet  appeared. 
Suddenly  the  crowd  strained  forward.  A  little  woman  in 
front  of  George,  getting  wedged  too  tightly  in  the  throng, 
uttered  a  squeak  of  alarm.  "Here  you  are,  missus,  let  me 
help  you  out  of  it,"  said  George,  thrusting  himself  back 
against  the  pressure,  for  her  grey  hair  and  faded  face 
wakened  old  memories.  But  his  effort  to  clear  a  way  for 
her  met  with  a  disconcerting  retort.  "Yes,  it's  likely, 
ain't  it?"  she  snapped  out,  looking  up  to  his  face,  high 
above  her  own,  with  a  queer  shrewdness.  "And  get  my 
place  for  yourself,  eh?  No,  you  don't,  long  'un."  She 
wedged  herself  back  again;  but  before  the  laugh  had  died 
away,  a  curious  buzz  from  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  ris- 
ing into  cries  of  alarm  and  protest — into  a  noise  of  hooting 
mingled  with  faint  cheering — announced  the  coming  of 
the  Prince.  An  escort  of  Light  Dragoons  cleared  the  way 
for  his  carriage.  As  the  crowd  was  forced  back,  George 
found  himself  in  the  front  line,  with  a  living  yet  unyielding 
wall  behind  him. 

He  glanced  round;  the  soldiers  were  near  now,  backing 
their  horses  against  the  mob;  men  shouted  angrily,  wo- 
men screamed,  and  there  was  some  laughter  now  and  then 
when  the  danger  had  gone  by. 

"Get  back  there!     Stand  back!" 

George  felt  his  anger  rising,  but  he  tried  to  wedge  him- 
self back  into  the  crowd.  It  was  impossible;  he  darted  out 
into  the  clear  way,  hoping  to  cross,  and  find  more  room  on 
the  side  opposite.  A  trooper  set  his  horse  at  him  savagely ; 
George  gripped  the  rein,  and  the  next  moment  the  flat  of 
the  man's  sword  swished  down  on  his  wrist;  as  his  fingers 
unclosed,  he  was  seized  by  the  collar  and  flung  roughly 


214  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

aside.  He  stumbled,  and  fell  on  his  knees;  as  he  rose, 
swearing,  and  half-mad  with  rage,  some  Bow  Street  offi- 
cers broke  through  the  crowd  from  the  direction  of  the 
colonnade,  and,  forcing  a  passage,  dragged  and  hustled 
him  to  the  rear.  He  stood  there,  shaking  and  speechless. 
The  mob  swayed  forward,  and  closed  behind  the  Regent's 
carriage,  yelling,  hooting,  hissing,  cheering — a  babel  of 
sound,  the  predominant  note  hatred  and  discontent. 

What  if  he  headed  a  revolt,  there  and  then?  An  appeal 
to  the  crowd — a  sudden  rush,  headed  by  him — the  Regent 
might  be  in  their  power,  helpless. 

The  idea  was  absurd,  and  he  knew  it.  They  could  do 
nothing  against  the  soldiers.  Already,  too,  the  mob  was 
dispersing.  But  as  he  walked  back  to  his  inn,  still  trem- 
bling with  rage  and  aching  with  the  buffeting  he  had  re- 
ceived, a  sense  of  burning  resentment  revived  his  ambitions. 
He  would  waste  no  more  time.  All  the  elements  that  go 
to  make  a  revolution  were  round  him.  How  was  he  to  set 
to  work?  He  knew  too  little  of  history  to  act  upon  any 
schemes  by  which  the  thrones  of  the  world  have,  from 
time  to  time,  changed  occupants,  or  been  imperilled.  Of 
course,  Cromwell  had  a  Parliament  at  his  back.  Buonaparte 
used  the  army  as  a  stepping-stone  to  power.  George  had 
heard  of  General  Mallet's  insurrection  in  Paris.  That  was 
nearly  successful — and  there  was  a  man  without  advan- 
tages, a  patient  in  a  prison  hospital,  who  came  within  an 
ace  of  winning  the  imperial  crown.  George  wondered 
whether  handbills  announcing  the  Regent's  sudden  death 
would  serve  his  ends.  But  the  conditions  were  wholly  dif- 
ferent. Buonaparte  was  far  away  when  Mallet  put  his 
scheme  in  execution;  and,  with  the  exception  of  the  infant 
King  of  Rome,  there  was  no  one  to  take  the  Emperor's 
place.  Besides,  London  was  not  Paris.  People  would  read 
the  proclamations  with  amusement;  the  Prince  need  only 
show  himself  at  the  windows  of  his  palace  to  convince 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  215 

them  of  the  lie;  George  had  no  money  with  which  to  bribe 
support,  no  friends,  as  Mallet  had,  to  help  him  in  carrying 
out  his  plot. 

But  the  clubs!  Those  might  furnish  him  with  his  oppor- 
tunity. From  the  clubs  in  Paris  the  French  Revolution 
had  sprung  into  being.  A  union  of  the  clubs!  Hampden 
Clubs,  Spencean  Clubs,  Union  Clubs,  Trades'  Clubs, 
Brothers  of  Freedom — he  did  not  know  half  the  names,  but 
he  could  find  them  all  out — and  combine  them — smoothing 
over  their  differences,  uniting  them  in  one  common  purpose 
under  his  direction.  Then — secret  drillings;  a  sudden 
night  rising;  attacks  on  the  barracks;  capture  of  the  person 
of  the  Regent — he  saw  his  way  clearly. 

In  his  hurried  departure  from  the  Running  Horse,  George 
had  left  behind  the  paper  on  which  he  had  jotted  down 
Dr.  Watson's  address  in  London.  The  name  of  the  street 
had  slipped  his  memory,  and  during  the  first  weeks  of  his 
stay  he  had  looked  forward  to  carrying  out  his  objects 
alone.  But  now  it  became  all-important  to  find  out  where 
the  Watsons  were  living.  He  haunted  Bloomsbury  for 
some  days  without  success.  One  morning,  however,  he 
saw  the  elder  Watson  and  another  man  coming  from  the 
offices  of  the  Scottish  Corporation  in  Crane  Court,  near  the 
One  Bell  Inn  where  he  was  staying.  In  Fleet  Street  they 
took  a  hackney  coach,  and,  though  he  missed  the  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking,  George  overheard  the  address — 11 
Hyde  Street.  He  went,  a  couple  of  days  later. 

Instead  of  the  imposing  house  he  had  expected  from  Dr. 
Watson's  conversation,  George  found  a  little  drugshop  and 
dispensary;  but  the  shelves  were  empty  of  bottles,  and  the 
place  apparently  deserted.  After  some  interval  a  man 
answered  his  knock.  His  manner  was  reticent  and  suspi- 
cious; but  he  at  last  gave  the  information  that  the  Watsons 
had  moved  to  Dean  Street  a  day  or  two  before,  though 
they  still  came  occasionally  to  the  Bloomsbury  house. 


216  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Dean  Street  opened  into  Fetter  Lane,  not  far  from  the 
One  Bell  Inn.  George  retraced  his  steps,  and,  after  tea, 
went  out  again  to  find  his  old  acquaintances. 

The  door  of  Number  1  Dean  Street  was  half  opened  by  a 
slatternly  woman  verging  on  old  age.  She  poked  her  head 
out  of  the  dark  and  narrow  passage,  like  some  night-bird 
disturbed  in  its  haunts;  round  spectacles,  rimmed  with 
horn,  heightened  the  impression. 

"Is  Dr.  Watson  at  home?"  asked  George. 

The  door  opened  to  admit  him,  and  closed  again.  Her 
feet  clattered  down  the  passage,  and  he  followed.  "In 
there,"  she  mumbled,  pointing  to  a  door,  and  vanished 
up  the  stairs. 

George  tapped.  There  was  no  answer.  He  knocked 
again,  and  then  pushed  the  door  open.  The  room  was 
empty. 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  decided  to  enter,  and  wait 
for  his  hosts. 

A  fire  was  in  the  grate,  burning  cheerfully  enough,  but 
otherwise  the  room  was  in  darkness.  It  bore  all  the  marks 
of  a  cheap  London  lodging-house.  At  one  side  of  the  fire- 
place stood  a  pair  of  jack-boots,  erect  and  stiff.  The  mantel- 
shelf held  a  few  cheap  ornaments:  a  pink-cheeked  shep- 
herdess, a  china  dog  with  one  ear  missing  and  a  broken 
leg,  a  cracked  glass  dome  enclosing  a  plaster  hand  holding 
wax  flowers  and  artificial  leaves.  On  the  walls  were  some 
cheap  prints,  and  a  sampler  worked  in  faded  silks.  This 
bore  some  texts,  the  letters  of  the  alphabet,  and  some  nu- 
merals, two  birds  in  green  and  red  plumage  (Goldsmith 
himself  would  have  found  it  difficult  to  classify  them),  and 
the  name,  "Mary  Kinsley,  aged  15,  May,  1759."  A  por- 
trait of  Major  Cartwright  faced  the  door. 

An  oval  table,  covered  with  a  cloth  much  stained  and 
darned,  was  littered  with  books  and  papers.  A  space  had 
been  cleared  for  inkstand,  quills,  and  a  printed  bill  which 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  217 

George  glanced  at.  It  was  evidently  a  proof,  and  the  ink 
in  which  some  marginal  corrections  had  been  made  was 
still  wet.  The  first  words  caught  his  eye. 

"  BRITONS,  TO  ARMS  !" 

He  sat  down  on  a  horsehair- covered  chair  which  the 
corrector  had  evidently  just  vacated,  and  read  on. 

"The  whole  country  waits  the  signal  from  London  to  fly  to  arms! 
Haste,  break  open  gunsmiths'  and  other  likely  places  to  find  arms! 
Run  all  constables  who  touch  a  man  of  us;  no  rise  of  bread,  no  Regent, 
no  Castlereagh,  off  with  their  heads;  no  placemen,  tithes,  or  enclos- 
ures; no  taxes;  no  bishops,  only  useless  lumber!  Stand  true,  or  be 
slaves  for  ever." 

Here  was  a  discovery.  He  had  come,  meaning  to  join 
one  of  the  disaffected  clubs,  and  nurse  it  and  others  into 
open  revolution.  And  he  had  stumbled  on  a  plot  already 
in  the  making — doubtless  near  execution.  What  a  stroke 
of  fortune!  In  all  wide  London,  he  had  come  straight  to 
the  one  quiet  street,  the  one  house,  the  one  little  room, 
where  conspiracy  planned  and  wove  its  webs.  Destiny 
must  have  led  his  steps,  marking  him  out  for  greatness. 

On  tiptoe,  in  his  excitement,  he  examined  the  room  for 
other  evidence.  Every  fresh  scrap  of  knowledge  he  could 
gain  would  be  a  lever  with  which  to  acquire  influence. 
Another  paper  bore  a  rough  plan  of  some  building.  The 
Tower!  A  third  puzzled  him.  It  seemed  a  kind  of  sketch- 
map,  with  crosses  here  and  there,  and  directions.  "Form 
3  divs  at  L.B.  Proceed  to  Old  Man.  Navigators."  Arrows 
pointed  in  this  direction  and  that. 

George  stood  up  and  stretched  himself.  His  eyes  were 
bright  with  excitement.  He  glanced  round  the  room  again. 
There  was  a  corner  cupboard,  rising  to  a  third  the  height 
of  the  wall;  the  top  of  it  served  as  a  stand  for  glasses, 
bottles,  and  a  few  old  books,  some  with  Latin  titles  on 
their  rusty  leather  backs,  some  with  the  names  of  human 


218  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

ailments  and  diseases.  George  tried  the  metal  knob  on 
the  door,  but  the  cupboard  was  locked.  A  screen  shut  off 
one  portion  of  the  room;  evidently  this  served  the  occu- 
pants as  a  sleeping  chamber.  Peering  behind  the  screen, 
George  made  a  new  discovery  of  intense  interest  and  im- 
portance. 

A  large  double  bed  was  covered  with  packages,  over 
which  a  blanket  had  been  thrown.  One  package  had  been 
torn  open,  and  he  saw  the  glint  of  metal  in  the  firelight. 
Pike-heads!  Dozens  of  them,  scores  of  them — why,  there 
must  be  hundreds,  for  under  the  bed  as  well  were  cases. 
A  smaller  package  was  wrapped  in  thin  paper,  which  he 
unwound.  A  stream  of  tricolour  ribbon,  red  and  white 
and  green,  fluttered  to  the  ground. 

He  was  rolling  it  again  hastily,  when,  to  his  dismay,  he 
heard  the  door  open  suddenly,  and  close.  A  key  turned 
in  the  lock.  At  the  same  moment,  a  great  shadow  danced 
on  the  wall  behind  him,  high  above  the  screen,  and  was 
drowned  almost  instantly  in  a  flood  of  yellow  lamplight. 

George  crouched  behind  the  screen,  with  the  tell-tale 
ribbon  in  his  hand,  and  listened.  He  heard  the  beating  of 
his  heart,  like  a  drum,  above  all  other  sounds. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

IX  the  excitement  of  his  discovery,  George  Kennett  had 
almost  forgotten  the  risks  he  ran.    In  any  case,  foot- 
steps in  the  passage  should  have  given  him  ample  warn- 
ing.    But  the  newcomer  had  entered  almost  noiselessly. 

Here  was  a  pretty  business!  George  scarcely  breathed. 
Probably  it  was  one  of  the  Watsons;  but  how  was  he  to 
explain  his  being  behind  the  screen?  The  long  coils  of 
unwound  ribbon  in  his  hand  would  at  once  betray  his 
motive.  The  lamp  and  the  locked  door  meant  that  he 
would  have  no  early  chance  of  extricating  himself  from 
his  position — if,  indeed,  he  could  remain  in  hiding  without 
attracting  notice.  Perhaps  his  better  plan  would  have 
been  to  take  the  bull  by  the  horns,  and  reveal  himself  at 
once;  but  he  hesitated. 

He  heard  the  sound  of  the  lamp  as  it  was  set  down  upon 
the  table;  the  man  seated  himself,  and  began  to  write. 
For  a  few  moments  nothing  was  heard  but  the  squeaking 
of  the  quill  and  the  rustle  of  the  fire  in  the  grate.  Very 
cautiously,  George  peered  round  the  side  of  the  screen. 

It  was  the  younger  Watson,  a  little  thinner,  a  little 
paler,  than  when  he  had  said  good-bye  to  George  in  the 
cabin  of  the  hoy.  His  prominent  features  were  flung  in 
grotesque  and  exaggerated  shadow  on  the  wall  behind  him. 
In  a  minute  he  broke  the  silence.  "My  God,"  he  burst 
out,  "that'll  fetch  them— they'll  rise  to  that!"  He  held 
the  bill  at  arm's  length,  gloating  over  it,  and,  pursing  up 
his  thin  lips,  whistled  a  stave,  very  softly,  of  the  Mar- 
seillaise, that  had  set  all  Paris  by  the  ears.  George  had 
almost  braced  up  his  courage  to  step  out  of  his  hiding- 
place,  when  Watson  rose,  and  pushed  back  his  chair. 
From  a  hip-pocket  in  his  drab  kersey  small-clothes  he 

219 


220  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

took  a  pistol,  and  brandished  it  at  the  wall.  Then,  with 
crazy  contortions  of  his  face  and  the  most  extravagant 
gestures  of  body,  he  harangued  an  invisible  audience. 
"Brothers — Countrymen — Englishmen,"  he  declaimed,  in 
a  hoarse,  subdued  voice,  "  to-day — this  very  hour — the  knell 
of  tyranny  is  sounding.  We  have  waited  long.  There  are 
four  millions  in  distress,  four  millions  embarrassed,  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  millions  dreading  want.  Are  we  slaves  or 
men?  Shall  we  let  the  thousands  grind  down  the  millions 
any  longer?  Why  do  we  wait?  The  time  is  ripe  at  last. 
I  will  be  your  leader.  Will  you  come?  Will  you  follow?" 
A  mad  yet  comic  figure,  with  his  shabby  clothing,  his  grey 
stockings  in  folds  about  the  thin  legs,  his  tattered  slippers, 
he  pirouetted  round,  as  if,  in  turn,  addressing  sections  of 
his  vast  but  unseen  audience.  He  waited  as  if  for  an  answer. 
"Let  us  go,  then.  To  the  gunsmiths' — for  weapons!  To 
the  Tower!  The  soldiers  are  our  friends.  To  the  Bank! 
Down  with  the  Regent!  Down  with " 

But  the  impassioned,  yet  half-subdued  harangue  came 
to  a  lame  conclusion.  There  was  a  sudden  tapping  at  the 
door.  Watson  opened  it,  and  four  men  entered,  muffled 
in  neck-cloths  and  great-coats. 

"My  dear  James,"  said  the  elder  Watson,  in  a  voice  at 
once  testy  and  reproachful,  "I  wish  we  could  impress 
the  need  for  caution  on  you.  I  distinctly  heard  your 
harangue  from  the  passage.  It  is  ill-advised,  ill-advised. 
Supposing  Mrs.  Kinsley " 

"She's  as  deaf  as  a  post  and  as  blind  as  an  owl, "  retorted 
James.  "If  she  did  hear?  We  could  rise  to-night;  Lon- 
don's ready.  I  went  to  the  Stone  Kitchen  at  the  Tower — 

"Hush,  hush;  the  Old  Man,  James,  the  Old  Man.  We 
have  agreed " 

"Oh,  we're  all  friends  here.  The  Old  Man,  if  you  like 
it  better.  The  soldiers  are  all  hot  for  us.  The  navigators 
are  with  us  to  a  man." 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  221 

"We'll  hear  your  report  in  a  minute,"  said  another 
man,  flinging  off  his  overcoat.  "Let's  do  everything  in 
order.  You've  locked  the  door?  That  harangue  of 
yours  might  have  been  overheard  in  the  street,  you 
know. " 

They  gathered  round  the  table,  and  the  man  who  had 
last  spoken  took  the  chair  which  young  Watson  had 
vacated.  George's  uneasiness  now  gave  place  to  alarm, 
not  without  reason.  It  was  one  thing  to  reveal  himself 
suddenly  to  the  Watsons,  quite  another  to  stand  out, 
a  self-convicted  spy,  in  the  presence  of  these  desperate 
and  resolute  men.  Watching  cautiously  through  a  chink 
in  the  screen,  he  saw  them  at  the  table — five,  all  told, 
including  the  two  he  had  come  to  visit.  The  man  in  the 
chair  wras  evidently  at  the  head  of  the  conspiracy,  and  his 
voice,  when  he  spoke,  demanded  and  received  respect.  He 
was  dressed  in  a  light-blue  coat,  and  grey  pantaloons,  and 
tasselled  Hessian  boots.  George  saw  his  features  distinctly 
in  the  lamplight:  a  sallow,  gloomy,  dissatisfied  face,  with 
plentiful  dark-brown  hair  and  whiskers,  and  dark  brows, 
peaked  almost  to  the  shape  of  arrow-heads,  over  hazel 
eyes.  Next  him  sat  a  man  of  much  bigger  and  coarser 
build.  His  face  was  red  and  blotched,  the  lips  coarse, 
the  unshaven  chin  heavy  and  sensual,  the  mottled  nose 
indicative  of  deep  potations.  Indeed,  his  first  words  were 
in  keeping  with  his  looks.  "We're  not  going  to  settle  this 
here  important  business  without  something  to  wet  our 
throats  with,  eh,  Doctor?"  he  growled.  "Strike  me,  I'm 
as  hoarse  as  a  crow  with  talking  over  those  wooden-headed 
soldiers." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Castle,  I  beg  your  pardon. 
Perhaps  a  little  refreshment  would — er — oil  the  wheels 
of  our  deleeberations. "  Watson  rose,  and  got  bottles 
and  glasses  from  the  cupboard.  "Ah,  that's  better,"  said 
Castle.  "Here's  to  the  cause!"  He  tossed  off  a  glass, 


222  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

with  some  words,  added  to  the  toast,  that  brought  forth 
a  remonstrance. 

"  Now,  Jack,  none  of  that, "  said  the  chairman,  sternly. 
"We  don't  want  any  more  of  that.  Remember  you're 
with  gentlemen." 

Castle  muttered  something  savouring  of  London  stews 
beneath  his  breath.  There  was  a  hint  of  Yorkshire  in  his 
accent,  and  the  tongue  of  the  breezy  moorlands  went  ill 
with  the  growled  profanity  and  uncleanness.  His  reprover 
took  no  further  notice,  but  went  on  with  the  proof.  ' '  That's 
right, "  he  said,  at  last.  "  We'll  have  copies  of  these  struck 
off  and  distributed  to-morrow.  Now,  the  matter  of  the 
soldiers.  It's  as  well  we  dropped  the  project  of  firing  the 
barracks  at  King  Street  and  Portman  Street.  The  day's 
ours  if  they'll  come  round  to  us." 

"They'll  do  that,  sir,  I  believe,"  said  young  Watson. 
"I've  sounded  numbers  of  them,  at  the  Tower,  and  in 
the  taverns  near  the  theatres.  They're  all  dissatisfied, 
and  ripe  for  mutiny." 

"Still,  if  they  have  orders  to  charge,"  said  Dr.  Watson, 
"I  must  confess  I'm  vera  apprehensive.  It  occurred  to 
me,  Mr.  Thistlewood,  a  cavalry  charge  is  an  unco  ill  affair, 
sir " 

"There'll  be  barricades,  of  course,"  said  Thistlewood. 
"Where's  the  map?  Well,  we're  going  to  block  the  streets, 
here,  and  here."  He  pointed  with  the  stump  of  his  pen 
to  different  points  on  the  paper  spread  before  him.  "  And 
there'll  be  others  thrown  up  as  occasion  requires,  of  course. 
The  crowd  will  bring  the  hackney  coaches  round,  and  with 
drays  and  waggons — well,  a  great  deal  must  be  left  to  the 
day." 

"I  was  going  to  suggest,"  Dr.  Watson  said,  "a  little 
device  of  my  designing.  I've  been  figuring  it  out.  Where 
is  it,  now?"  He  fumbled  in  his  pockets.  "Ah,  here  we 
are!  An  instrument  something  of  this  kind,  now,  to  be 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  223 

thrown  down  in  front  of  the  horses;  you'll  observe,  sir " 

He  explained  his  invention  at  some  length,  leaning 
forward  across  the  table.  "Of  course,  a  rough  sketch, 
sir — merely  a  rough  sketch;  but  you  see  what  I  mean?" 

"It'd  do  us  all  the  good  in  the  world  if  a  few  of  our 
lads  were  killed  by  the  soldiers,"  broke  in  Castle.  "That'd 
rouse  the  crowd  if  nothing  else  did.  Blood  draws  blood, 
like  water  poured  in  a  pump." 

"You'd  better  be  first  martyr,  then,  Jack,"  said  Thistle- 
wood,  still  poring  over  the  papers. 

"Me?  And  me  one  of  the  Generals?  I'm  not  afraid 
of  bloodshed,  though,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  There's 
some  here  want  to  do  the  business  with  kid  gloves  on. 
That's  not  my  sort.  Why,  when  I  was  getting  that  French 
officer  out  of  England " 

"We've  all  heard  about  that.  But  the  man  was  unarmed 
when  you  clapped  your  pistol  to  his  head.  Well,  Dr. 
Watson " 

But  Castle,  already  half-drunk,  banged  a  great  fist 
down  on  the  table,  shaking  the  lamp,  and  making  the 
light  dance  in  the  room.  "Look  here,"  he  cried,  "does 
any  one  want  to  call  me  a  coward?  Because,  if  that's 
so,  I'm  ready  to  fight  him  here  and  now.  I'm  not  afraid 
of  any  one  of  you,"  he  growled.  "I  tell  you  straight, 
there's  too  much  of  the  'gentlemen'  about  this  to  please 
me — a  damned  sight  too  much.  Gentlemen?  We'll  all 
be  gentlemen  in  a  week's  time.  We'll  all " 

"Sit  down,  sit  down,"  said  Thistlewood.  "I'm  talking 
to  Dr.  Watson.  We'll  hear  what  you  have  to  say  after- 
wards. I  think  something  might  be  done  in  that  way, 
Doctor.  Perhaps  Bentley  might  turn  out  a  few.  By  the 
way " 

"I've  a  better  plan  than  that,"  growled  Castle,  "though 
I'm  to  take  a  back  seat  and  say  nothing,  I  suppose.  If 
you're  afraid  of  the  soldiers,  the  thing's  easily  settled. 


224  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Get  a  few  women — prettier  the  better — clap  'em  in  tri- 
colour dresses,  and,  if  the  soldiers  come,  march  'em  ahead 
of  the  crowd.  There  won't  be  no  firing  nor  charging  then. 
And  if  one  or  two  get  shot " 

"I  reckon  Jack  could  supply  the  women  all  right," 
the  fifth  man,  who  had  not  yet  spoken,  said,  slyly.  He 
was  lame,  as  George  had  noticed  when  he  crossed  the 
room,  and  had  long  hair  plastered  down  over  his  fore- 
head. The  assembly  laughed. 

"Ho!  ho!"  said  Castle,  joining  in,  "that's  one  for 
Preston,  that  is.  I'll  bring  as  many  of  them — what's 
that?  What  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

Preston  had  whispered  something  to  his  neighbour,  which 
George  could  not  hear,  though  Castle  did,  and  resented 

it.  "I'll  let  you  know "  he  began,  his  tone  changing 

swiftly  to  menace. 

"All  right,  Jack,  all  right,"  said  Thistlewood,  smoothing 
him  down;  "we've  got  something  else  than  you  to  discuss 
now,  and  Preston  needn't  have  said  that.  We'll  see 
Bentley  about  your  invention,  Doctor;  I  think  there's 
something  in  it.  It'll  be  rather  a  question  of  funds.  By 
the  way,  have  any  of  the  pikes  come?" 

"I  was  forgetting  them,"  said  young  Watson,  jumping 
up.  "Yes,  he  brought  them  this  afternoon.  I  put  them 
on  the  bed.  Oh,  and  there's  some  more  ribbon " 

George's  -heart  leapt,  and  stood  still.  The  moment  had 
come  at  last,  and  found  him  still  unready.  A  boy  whistled 
in  the  friendly  street,  so  near,  and  yet  so  far  away;  he 
heard  the  clatter  of  hoofs  and  wheels  upon  the  cobbles. 

Thistlewood  rose. 

"Oh,  that's  good!  We'll  have  a  look  at  them,  then, 
and  see  if  they're  all  right.  They'd  better  go  to  Grey- 
stoke  Place." 

George's  first  impulse  was  to  seize  one  of  the  pike-heads 
from  the  opened  bundle,  and,  using  it  as  a  dagger,  force 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  225 

his  way  through  to  the  door  under  cover  of  their  surprise. 
He  remembered  in  a  flash  that  the  door  was  locked,  and 
young  Watson  held  the  key.  He  was  trapped  like  a  rat. 
The  most  probable  result  of  resistance  would  be  a  sudden 
shot,  ending  his  life  and  his  ambitions  at  the  same  moment. 
The  men  were  armed,  and  would  stick  at  nothing.  His 
best  policy — indeed,  his  only  chance  of  being  admitted  as 
a  confederate — lay  in  coming  boldly  from  his  hiding-place, 
and  explaining  the  position  of  affairs  quite  frankly.  But 
even  that  moment  of  hesitation  lost  him  his  opportunity. 

Thistlewood  drew  aside  the  screen. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  and  staggered  back,  pale-faced. 
The  screen  clattered  down. 

For  a  moment  there  was  dead  silence.  All  eyes  turned 
towards  the  stranger.  The  ribbon  littered  the  floor,  lying 
in  coils  and  spirals  of  red,  and  green,  and  white.  The  open 
bundle  on  the  bed  told  its  own  story. 

"Put  out  the  lamp!"  gasped  Preston,  suddenly,  and 
limped  towards  it.  Young  Watson  intercepted  him. 
"There's  only  one,  you  fool,"  he  cried,  and  snatched  the 
pistol  from  his  pocket.  He  aimed  it  in  Kennett's  direction. 
But  already  Castle  had  rushed  forward  and  clutched  George 
by  the  throat,  forcing  him  back  against  the  bed.  "You 
damned  spy!"  he  hissed. 

The  attack  was  so  sudden  that  George,  expecting  the 
first  movement  from  Thistlewood,  was  borne  down,  chok- 
ing, before  he  could  make  any  resistance.  Castle,  with 
his  knee  against  his  victim's  chest,  twisted  his  knuckles 
into  his  throat,  dragging  at  the  same  time  at  collar  and 
neck-cloth  until  George's  eyes  started  and  his  face  grew 
livid.  The  man's  other  hand  fumbled  for  his  knife. 

Old  Watson  fluttered  round,  begging  Castle  to  do  the 

spy  no  injury,  and  counselling  them  to  secure  him,  in  the 

same    breath,  his  wits  in  a  startled  flurry.     Thistlewood 

was  the  first  to  regain  composure.     "Don't  choke  him, 

15 


226  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Jack,  until  he's  given  an  explanation.  We'll  listen  to  what 
lies  he  has  to  tell,  even  if  he's  a  Government  informer. 
Bring  him  to  the  light.  Put  your  knife  down;  Watson, 
keep  him  covered.  We'll  shoot  you  without  hesitation, 
my  friend,  if  you  attempt  to  escape.  .  .  .  That's  it, 
keep  him  there,  against  the  wall.  Now,  sir,  let's  hear 
what  you  have  to  say  for  yourself." 

"Yes — what  the  devil  have  you  to  say  for  yourself, 
eh?"  growled  Castle,  his  face  purple  with  the  struggle. 
"Though,  by  G — ,  if  I  had  my  way,  I  wouldn't  listen  to 
the  pack  of  lies  that's  quivering  on  your  lips." 

"Stand  clear  of  him,  Jack;  Watson's  got  him  covered. 
He's  a  dead  man  if  he  moves.  Well,  let's  have  your  story, 
sir.  How  did  you  come  here?" 

"I — I  came  to  see  the  Watsons,"  gasped  George,  when 
he  had  breath  enough  for  speaking.  "How  did  I  come? 
Walked  in  through  the  door — as  I  was  told  to.  Dr.  Watson 
and  his  son  will  know  me. " 

"I?"  cried  James  Watson.  "I've  never  clapped  eyes 

on "  But  he  broke  off,  as  the  man's  features,  seen  now 

distinctly  and  resuming  normal  colour,  wakened  remem- 
brance. "  Damme,  it's  the  Herne  Bay  man! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  That's  me, "  said  George,  assuming  a  nonchalance  he 
by  no  means  felt.  "George  Kennett,  of  the  Running 
Horse,  Herne  Bay.  Dr.  Watson'll  know  me,  too.  Let 
me  sit  down,  and  I'll  tell  you  all  you  want  to  know.  If 
my  legs  hadn't  been  stiff  with  standing  behind  the  screen 
all  that  time,  he  wouldn't  have  got  me  down  so  easy,  I 
can  tell  you." 

Dr.  Watson  reached  for  a  chair,  and  George  sat  down. 
"Really,  Mr.  Kennett,"  said  the  Doctor,  nervously,  "this  is 
vera  extraordinary.  I  doubt  if  you  realise  what  a  serious 
position — I  recollect  you  now,  of  course;  I  recollect  you 
distinctly.  But — dear  me — of  all  the  extraordinary  meet- 
ings  " 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  227 

He  mopped  his  brow,  nervous  excitement  and  bewilder- 
ment leaving  him  at  a  loss  for  words. 

"Well,  what's  your  explanation,  sir?"  asked  Thistle- 
wood,  coldly.  "Your  acquaintance  with  Dr.  Watson  and 
his  son  doesn't  justify  your  spying  on  our  movements. " 

George  had  asked  for  the  chair  as  a  respite.  Lack  of 
breath,  at  first  real,  then  simulated,  gave  him  time  to 
collect  his  thoughts.  It  was  difficult  to  find  a  plausible 
lie;  but  his  wits  came  to  his  aid  at  last,  and  he  carried  off 
the  situation  boldly. 

"Why,"  he  said,  "it's  a  simple  enough  matter.  The 
old  woman  showed  me  in  here  when  I  asked  to  see  Dr. 
Watson.  I've  left  Herne  Bay,  and  they  invited  me  to 
call  if  ever  I  came  to  London.  Some  one  at  Hyde  Street 
sent  me  on  here.  There  was  no  one  in  the  room " 

"But  I've  been  here  all  the  afternoon!"  said  James 
Watson,  really  mystified.  "I  was  sitting  at  that  table 
for  an  hour  before  you  all  came  in." 

"You  went  out  to  get  the  lamp,  I  suppose,"  said  George. 
"At  least,  you  came  in  with  it." 

"My  dear  James!"  cried  his  father,  flinging  up  his 
hands.  "You'll  ruin  us  all  by  your  carelessness.  That 
door  was  always  to  be  kept  locked — even  Mrs.  Kinsley 
was  not  to  enter  unless  some  one  was  in  here  at  the  time. " 

"Well,  there's  no  harm  done,"  said  George,  with  a  con- 
fidence he  was  far  from  feeling. 

"No  harm?"  interrupted  Castle,  with  an  oath.  "Not 
to  us,  by  G — ,  we'll  take  care  of  that.  But  you  won't 
go  out  of  here  except  feet  foremost,  if  I  have  my  way  with 
you. " 

"Hold  your  tongue,  Jack,"  said  Thistlewood,  sternly. 
"You've  explained  your  presence  in  the  room,  but " 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  rest  if  you'll  give  me  time  to 
speak.  I'm  not  concealing  anything.  When  I  found  the 
Watsons  weren't  here,  and  the  old  lady  had  gone  upstairs, 


228  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

I  thought  I'd  sit  down  by  the  fire  and  wait.  I — I  pushed 
the  chair  back,  and  the  screen  fell  over.  That  upset  one 
of  the  parcels  on  the  bed,  and  the  ribbon  all  came  out. 
I  was  folding  it  up  when  Mr.  Watson  came  in  with  the 
lamp,  and " 

"But  why  didn't  you  come  out  then?"   asked  Watson. 

"Why  didn't  I?  Well,  I  reckon  I  made  a  mistake 
there.  I  ought  to  have  come  out.  But  put  yourself  in 
my  place,  Mr.  Watson.  I  saw  the  tricolour;  I  saw  the 
pike-heads  in  the  open  parcel.  Things  looked  rather  odd, 
you'll  admit.  It  took  my  breath  away  a  bit.  I  remembered 
what  you'd  said  at  Herne  Bay  about  a  rising,  and  you 
know  you  asked  me  to  come  to  one  of  your  club  meetings. 
But  I  didn't  want  you  to  think  I'd  come  into  your  room 
and  been  spying  around.  I  was  just  going  to  explain  how 
it  was,  though,  when  those  other  gentlemen  came  in — 
and  then " 

"And  then  you  listened,  and  spied  on  us?" 

"Couldn't  help  listening.  But  look  here,  there's  no 
harm  done.  I'm  one  of  you,  I  am.  Mr.  Watson  knows 
that.  I  reckon  I'll  be  useful  to  you,  too.  It's  an  accident, 
my  finding  this  out;  but  it's  the  best  accident  that  could 
happen  for  me,  and  for  you  as  well.  You  don't  seem  to 
have  made  much  secret  of  the  plot  to  those  soldiers  you 
were  talking  about." 

"We've  given  them  no  chance  of  putting  our  necks  in 
the  halter,  though,"  said  Thistlewood.  "Oh,  I'll  be  quite 
plain  with  you,  sir.  There  is  a  plot;  you've  discovered 
it;  and  we  can't  afford  to  run  risks  of  treachery."  He 
paced  the  room  in  uncertainty.  "How  do  I  know  what 
you  are?"  he  burst  out,  at  last.  "Dr.  Watson  and  his  son 
met  you  at  Herne  Bay;  you " 

"He  was  certainly  in  sympathy  with  us  then,"  said 
young  Watson.  "I  think,  sir,  we  can  trust  him,  and  make 
him  useful  to  us. "  He  whispered  something  to  Thistlewood. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  229 

"Oh!"  said  he,  and  turned  to  Castle.  "Keep  an  eye 
on  him,  Jack.  We'll  decide  about  this." 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  said  George.  "I  shan't  run 
away. " 

"No,  I'm  damned  if  you  will,"  Castle  grunted,  drag- 
ging out  his  knife.  He  stood  in  front  of  the  prisoner, 
eyeing  him  like  a  cat  a  mouse,  while  the  others  whispered 
in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

At  last  Thistlewood  turned  his  head.  "Dr.  Watson 
and  his  son  think  we  may  trust  you,"  he  said.  "They 
tell  me  you  were  in  the  army,  which  is  in  your  favour. 
We  may  find  you  work  among  your  old  comrades.  Just 
hold  up  your  hand." 

Wondering  what  was  coming,  George  obeyed;  and 
Thistlewood  administered  an  oath,  in  which  he  bound 
himself  to  their  undertaking.  "Now,  remember,  the  least 
sign  of  your  revealing  this  house  to  any  one — to  any  one, 
mind — the  slightest  indication  that  you've  played  us  false, 
and  your  life  will  be  the  forfeit.  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
that  you'll  be  watched.  In  the  meantime,  Dr.  Watson 
and  his  son  will  find  you  work." 

"Stab  me, "  growled  Castle,  "is  that  all ?  You're  going  to 
let  him  off  like  that  ?  An  oath !  What's  the  good  of  that  ? " 

"Oh,  we  know  you've  broken  a  few  in  your  time,  Jack," 
said  James  Watson,  with  a  laugh,  in  which  the  others 
joined. 

"Damned  if  I'd  give  him  the  chance  of  breaking  one, 
though,"  said  Castle.  He  flourished  his  knife  and  patted 
it,  his  eyes  gleaming.  "This  is  the  best  thing  to  swear  a 
spy  on — give  him  six  inches  of  this  in  his  witals,  say  I, 
if  you  want  safety.  I  wouldn't  let  him  go,  laughing  up  his 
sleeve,  to  give  us  away  to  the  first  Bow  Street  officer 
he  sees." 

"Oh,  put  that  away,  Jack,"  said  Thistlewood.  "You 
won't  want  to  use  it  till  Monday." 


230  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"I  daresay  we'll  have  the  red  weskits  round  before  then, " 
grumbled  Castle. 

Thistle  wood  picked  up  his  great-coat  and  put  it  on. 
"You  can  start  Kennett  on  his  work  to-night,  Watson," 
he  said.  "Take  him  with  you.  Preston — and  you,  Jack 
— help  me  with  those  pike-heads;  they'll  be  safer  at  Grey- 
stoke  Place  than  here. " 

Young  Watson  unlocked  the  door;  Thistlewood,  Preston, 
and  Castle  went  out,  leaving  the  Watsons  with  their 
visitor.  George  breathed  freely  again. 

"Well,"  he  said,  jauntily,  "your  friends  didn't  seem  to 
find  me  a  very  welcome  visitor,  Dr.  Watson.  A  rare 
storm  in  a  teacup  about  a  little  accident.  But  it's  saved 
me  a  lot  of  explanation.  I've  hit  on  what  I  wanted,  the 
very  thing.  I'm  with  you,  soul  and  heart  and  body." 

"It's  fortunate  for  you  we  know  you,"  said  Watson 
junior.  "If  we  hadn't  been  here,  I  doubt  if  you'd  have 
left  the  room  alive.  But  we  want  men,  and  I  told  Thistle- 
wood  you'd  be  useful.  It's  men  who  can  handle  weapons 
we  need  now.  At  Herne  Bay — but  how  are  they  there, 
Kennett?  Your  brother  and  Mrs.  Kennett?" 

George  answered  his  inquiries  briefly.  His  thoughts 
were  turned  suddenly,  and  unpleasantly,  into  different 
channels.  "I've  been  in  London  some  time,  though," 
he  added. 

"A  pretty  little  woman,  your  sister-in-law,  Kennett," 
said  Watson.  "I  was  going  to  say  that  I  told  you  to 
expect  something,  when  we  were  at  Herne  Bay.  Every- 
thing's ready  now.  On  Monday  we'll  see  an  end  of  this 
tyranny,  this  poverty  and  misery.  You  heard  about  the 
Spa  Fields  meeting?" 

"I  heard  some  men  talking  about  it  the  other  day. 
Proposed  a  petition  to  the  Regent,  didn't  they?" 

"Yes,  asking  him  to  relieve  distress.  And  on  Monday 
there's  to  be  a  meeting  to  hear  the  answer.  To  hear  the 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  231 

answer!  It's  another  sort  of  answer  England  will  hear. 
An  answer  written  in  blood;  an  answer 

"  Oh,  I  trust  matters  will  go  smoothly, "  said  Dr.  Watson, 
rubbing  his  hands.  "I  trust  so.  I  have  some  recollection, 
Mr.  Kennett,  that  at  Herne  Bay  I  counselled  moderation. 
But  there  may  have  to  be  some  blood-letting.  We  have 
the  nucleus  of  an  armed  force — the  nucleus.  It  is  lament- 
able; I  regret  the  necessity;  but  England  is  really  thor- 
oughly cachectic — thoroughly  cachectic.  Bills  such  as 
you  have  heard  read  will  be  distributed.  Others,  more 
tempered  in  tone,  have  been  given  away  to  those  likely 
to  be  more  moderate;  people  in  distress,  who  would  not 
favour  harsh  measures.  But  the  leaven  will  then  spread. 
When  the  meeting  is  assembled,  they  shall  find  leaders; 
they  shall  take  sides,  with  us,  I  hope.  It  will  be  that 
or  the  redding-straik — a  Scots  term,  Mr.  Kennett,  signi- 
fying the  blow  folk  who  stand  betwixt  rival  combatants 
must  expect.  I  trust  that  the  soldiers  will  join  us,  how- 
ever. It  is  a  vera  deplorable  thing,  Mr.  Kennett,  that 
things  have  come  to  such  a  pass.  But " 

"The  blood  won't  be  on  our  heads!"  interrupted  young 
Watson,  dramatically.  "They  have  goaded  us  to  it,  and 
now  they  must  take  the  consequences.  There'll  be  thou- 
sands— tens  of  thousands — at  Spa  Fields  on  the  second, 
desperate,  burning  with  their  grievances,  and  waiting  to  see 
if  the  petition  has  a  favourable  answer.  If  it's  received  at 
all,  they'll  get  vague  sympathy,  a  promise  of  considera- 
tion, an  exhortation  to  patience.  Patience!"  He  foamed 
at  the  mouth.  "And  then  what '11  happen?  Without 
leaders,  some  would  be  gulled  by  empty  words.  More  would 
not  be  gulled,  but  would  think  there  was  no  prospect  of 
redress  or  help.  They'd  slink  back  to  their  homes  to  try 
and  live  on  patience.  There'd  be  a  little  shouting,  hooting, 
groaning."  He  danced  round  the  room  as  he  spoke. 
"  Perhaps  a  few — they  did,  last  time — would  loot  the  shops, 


232  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

and  be  chased  away  by  police  or  soldiers.  Then  things 
would  go  on  as  before.  Hunt  would  slink  away;  the  others 
who  pretend  to  be  leaders  would  cry  out  about  constitu- 
tional means,  and  keep  their  necks  well  out  of  danger. 
It'd  all  end  in  smoke.  .  .  .  But  we'll  take  care  that 
doesn't  happen.  There'll  be  men  to  lead  them:  Thistle- 
wood — he  was  in  the  army,  an  officer  in  the  3rd  Lincoln- 
shire Regiment,  a  man  used  to  leadership — he's  been  in 
America  and  France,  and  knows  what  he  wants;  my 
father  and  I;  Preston,  a  shoemaker,  but  a  capable  man — 
he'll  represent  the  mechanics  and  artisans;  Hooper, 
another  working  man.  Our  Generals  represent  all  classes 
— the  professions,  the  army,  the  trades.  Castle  calls  him- 
self a  smith  now;  he  was  a  figure- maker — children's  dolls 
— but  he's  a  fellow  who's  been  in  many  a  rough  job  before 
this  one.  He  got  his  living  once  by  smuggling  French 
officers  who  had  broken  their  parole  across  Channel.  A 
rough  customer,  he  is,  but  he'll  bring  the  people  out  of 
the  slums  and  stews  of  London." 

"Unfortunately,  Mr.  Kennett,  in  an  enterprise  of  this 
nature  we  have  to  make  use  of  strange  tools. "  Dr.  Watson 
sighed,  and  shook  his  head.  "'Tis  most  regrettable,  and 
our  army — I  have  misgivings  sometimes,  sair  misgivings. 
I  canna  but  think  sometimes,  with  Horace — 

"  '  Non  his  juventus  orta  parentibus 
Infedt  aequor  sanguine  Punico, 
Pyrrhumque  et  ingentem '  " 

"That's  all  Greek  to  Kennett,  sir,"  interrupted  his  son, 
sharply.  "And  I  deny  that  it's  true.  We've  better  men 
than  you  imagine.  Castle  may  be  a  rough  customer,  but 
he's  useful.  He's  been  working  among  the  navigators  on 
the  Paddington  Canal;  there'll  be  hundreds  of  them  there 
on  Monday,  as  powerful  men  as  you  could  wish.  And 
their  friends  will  come  in  thousands.  You  have  no  idea, 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  233 

even  yet,  father,  how  widespread  the  movement  is.  At 
the  lowest  computation,  I  shall  bring  fourteen  thousand 
from  the  Minories  and  the  neighbouring  districts.  And 
when  once  the  undecided,  the  wavering,  even  the  moderate, 
find  leaders,  they'll  carry  all  before  them.  Revolt  will 
spread  like  fire  on  a  parched  heath.  We've  only  to  show 
them  they  need  expect  no  redress  from  the  Government 
or  the  Regent.  Redress  from  him?  All  the  redressing 
he  cares  about  is  the  redressing  of  his  own  fat  body.  The 
country  will  rise,  too.  The  coaches  will  carry  out  the  news 
of  our  success — carry  it  through  the  length  and  breadth 
of  the  land,  like  the  fiery  cross.  Every  town,  every  village 
will  rise.  On  Tuesday  all  England  will  be  in  arms.  Club- 
men, warned  beforehand — we  have  confederates  every- 
where— will  be  waiting  near  the  turnpikes  at  night,  and 
will  signal  the  news  from  hill  to  hill.  It'll  be  the  French 
Revolution  again,  but " 

"Without  the  horrors,  James,  I  sincerely  hope,"  said 
his  father,  "I  trust,  without  the  horrors.  As  you  know, 
Mr.  Kennett,  I  am  beginning  to  think  that  drastic  measures 
— drastic  measures  in  moderation " 

"Drastic  in  moderation!  Listen  to  him!  We  must 
draw  the  sword,  but  for  heaven's  sake  don't  let  it  be 
sharp.  We're  unhappily  compelled  to  use  firelocks,  but 
we'll  be  careful  to  put  in  no  bullets  that'll  hurt.  We'll 
have  our  pound  of  flesh  from  those  men  who  have  owed 
it  to  us  for  so  long,  but  we  mustn't  draw  blood — oh,  we 
mustn't  draw  a  drop  of  blood." 

The  young  man's  pinched,  sharp-featured  face  worked 
crazily;  his  voice  grew  shrill;  he  began  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  narrow,  poverty-stricken  room,  declaiming 
angrily  against  the  Government,  against  the  Regent, 
against  the  half-hearted.  He  mouthed  threats  that  would 
have  done  no  disgrace  to  French  sansculottism.  And  then, 
suddenly,  he  wheeled  round,  and  spoke  in  a  calmer  voice. 


234  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"You  think  I'm  making  a  fool  of  myself,  Kennett? 
You  think  I'm  mad?  Look  at  this — this — this."  He 
swung  his  arm  round,  pointing  out  the  dingy  walls,  the 
faded  furniture,  the  evidences  of  poverty  around  him. 
"Do  you  know  what  it  is  to  be  half-starved?  Oh,  we're 
damned  poor — we're  damned  poor!  All  the  patients  we 
get  is  patience  to  endure — and  not  that,  with  me — all 
the  practice,  practice  at  living  on  next  to  nothing,  when 
men  like  the  Regent  and  his  leeches — but  there's  the  clock. 
The  evening's  going.  Stick  this  cockade  in  your  hat,  and 
we'll  set  to  work.  Not  outside,  man,  not  outside — in  the 
hat.  You  can  wear  it  outside  on  Monday." 

He  snipped  off  several  inches  of  the  ribbon  as  he  spoke, 
and  fashioned  it  into  a  tricolour  cockade. 

"White  for  truth,  ye'll  observe,  Mr.  Kennett,"  said  old 
Watson,  hovering  over  as  the  cockade  was  adjusted, 
"white  for  truth,  green  for  nature,  and  red  for  justice." 

George  and  young  Watson  went  out  together.  They 
spent  the  evening  in  taverns  near  the  theatre  and  under 
the  Adelphi,  and,  working  gradually  towards  the  city, 
ended  at  the  Stone  Kitchen  in  the  Tower.  James  Watson 
was  used  to  his  work.  Here  and  there  he  found  men  wait- 
ing for  him  and  expecting  him.  George's  army  service 
was  a  ready  introduction;  the  soldiers  were  willing  enough 
to  voice  their  discontent,  grumble  against  the  Govern- 
ment, and  drink  the  ale  which  Watson  paid  for.  They 
winked  knowingly  and  sympathetically  when  the  two 
conspirators  showed  the  cockades  pinned  to  the  linings  of 
their  hats.  .  .  .  They  winked  again  at  each  other  when 
the  two  backs  were  turned,  and  their  comments  among 
themselves  augured  badly  for  the  success  of  the  conspiracy. 

It  was  late  at  night  when  George  Kennett,  flushed  and 
excited  with  drink,  said  good-bye  to  young  Watson  at 
the  door  of  the  One  Bell  Inn. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HPHE  conspiracy,  which  came  to  a  head  on  the  2nd  of 
1  December,  1816,  at  Spa  Fields,  had  been  long  in 
contemplation.  Since  autumn  the  six  Generals  had  dis- 
cussed and  rejected  many  projects  which  should  over- 
throw the  Government,  and  place  the  reins  of  power  in 
their  own  hands.  Meetings  had  taken  place  every  day 
during  the  last  week  or  two,  at  the  Cock  in  Grafton  Street, 
at  Dr.  Watson's  room  in  Dean  Street,  at  Southampton 
Buildings,  where  Thistlewood  and  his  wife  lived,  and  at  a 
room  in  Greystoke  Place,  near  Fetter  Lane,  which  had 
been  rented  for  the  purpose.  Many  of  their  original  in- 
tentions had  been  found  impracticable.  A  proposal  to 
burn  the  barracks  in  King  Street  and  Portman  Street, 
and  to  explode  the  powder  magazine  in  Hyde  Park,  was 
abandoned,  owing  to  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  house  in 
which  to  store  combustibles.  The  suggested  barricading 
of  the  streets  was  also  given  up.  But  the  meeting  to  hear 
the  answer  to  the  petition  was  sure  to  draw  a  large  con- 
course of  people  to  Spa  Fields;  and  desperate  efforts 
were  made  to  secure  the  presence  of  men  who  would  be 
prepared  to  go  to  all  lengths,  and  by  their  action  ensure 
the  co-operation  of  the  mob. 

Somewhat  to  his  chagrin,  George  found  that  he  would 
have  to  play  a  very  secondary  part.  With  Hooper,  Castle, 
and  young  Watson,  he  paid  many  visits  to  the  London 
public-houses,  especially  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
barracks,  and  the  theatres  where  the  soldiers  spent  their 
leisure.  He  helped  to  spread  disaffection  among  the  work- 
men in  great  centres  of  industry.  In  the  King's  Yard  at 
Wapping,  at  the  Paddington  Canal  Works,  at  Dawson's 
Brewhouse,  and  Mellish's  Slaughterhouse,  among  porters 

235 


236  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

in  the  London  markets,  and  coal-heavers  and  wharfside 
loafers  on  the  Thames,  they  received  many  promises  of 
support.  Thistlewood  supplied  funds  for  beer,  and  the 
amount  of  sympathy  they  received  was  only  limited  by 
the  number  of  half-pints  of  ale  or  porter  these  supplies 
could  furnish.  A  fund  had  been  raised  to  aid  in  the  work, 
and  subscriptions  came  in,  though  slowly.  Old  Watson 
spoilt  innumerable  sheets  of  paper  with  plans  and  designs 
which  came  to  nothing.  Young  Watson  spent  his  morning, 
when  he  was  not  engaged  in  canvassing,  in  making  bullets 
with  a  little  mould.  But  George  found  himself  excluded 
from  the  secret  meeting  of  the  Generals.  Vague  promises 
were  made,  to  be  redeemed  in  the  event  of  success;  and 
with  these  he  had  to  be  content.  A  Provisional  Committee 
of  Public  Safety  had  been  drafted,  containing  the  names 
of  Sir  Francis  Burdett,  Lord  Cochrane,  Major  Cartwright, 
Arthur  Thistlewood,  James  Watson,  senior,  Hunt,  and  six 
or  seven  more  who  were  popular  with  the  masses.  Most 
of  these  men  had  no  knowledge  of  the  plot,  and  would 
have  had  little  sympathy  with  it.  George  plumed  himself 
on  his  ability,  if  success  came,  to  take  a  prominent  place 
by  force  or  by  diplomacy;  in  the  meantime,  he  worked 
loyally  to  ensure  a  fortunate  ending  to  the  conspiracy. 
Early  on  the  morning  of  the  2nd  of  December,  George 
Kennett  breakfasted  at  the  One  Bell,  and,  in  excitement 
the  more  intense  because  suppressed,  hurried  to  the  Black 
Dog,  in  Drury  Lane,  where  the  conspirators  had  arranged 
to  meet  shortly  before  eight.  Here  the  last  few  arrange- 
ments were  hastily  made.  Young  Watson  had  already 
gone  to  the  Minories,  to  head  the  contingent  from  there, 
and  Preston  to  Spitalfields.  Hooper  was  going  to  Chancery 
Lane,  to  meet  a  waggon  which  had  been  engaged  for  the 
purposes  of  the  meeting.  Watson,  who  had  on  a  drab 
great-coat  covering  him  from  neck  to  ankles,  was  in  a 
flutter  of  excitement,  like  a  figure  on  wires.  "A  great 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  237 

day  in  the  history  of  Britain,  this,"  he  said,  grasping 
George's  hand.  "Oh,  a  memorable  day  indeed!  Mr. 
Kennett,  I  suggest  your  going  with  Hooper  to  the  waggon. 
Stay,  you  will  have  a  drop  of  spirits  to  keep  the  cold  out, 
before  you  start. "  He  poured  out  half  a  tumbler  each  of 
raw  spirit  for  George  and  Hooper,  and  drank  one  himself. 
"Here  are  the  bullets,  Hooper — I  trust  they  will  not  be 
needed — and  the  powder."  He  wound  a  handkerchief 
round  an  old  stocking  knobbed  with  bullets;  Hooper  took 
it  under  his  coat,  and  carried  also  the  canister  of  powder, 
carefully  concealed.  "You  can  take  these  flags,  Kennett 
— oh,  and  the  blanket.  Wrap  it  round  them.  Cover  all 
over  in  the  waggon.  We  mustn't  have  accidents  before 
the  field  is  reached." 

With  his  bundle  under  his  arm,  George  strode  on  beside 
Hooper  to  the  end  of  Chancery  Lane.  A  man  and  a  boy, 
with  long  whips  and  broad-brimmed,  low-crowned  wag- 
goners' hats,  were  waiting  with  the  waggon. 

"Are  you  going  to  Spa  Fields?"  asked  Hooper. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"In  with  the  things,  then,  Kennett.  Pull  the  blanket 
over  them — so, "  he  whispered.  The  incriminating  luggage 
was  stowed  away  and  covered;  Kennett  and  Hooper  took 
their  places ;  the  whips  cracked,  and  the  horses  started. 

Both  men  were  silent,  occupied  with  their  thoughts. 
One  of  the  waggoners  whistled  a  cheerful  tune,  and  talked 
to  his  horses,  calling  them  by  name.  London  gave  no 
sign  of  the  tremendous  issues  hanging  on  the  day  that 
had  just  begun.  Here  and  there  were  lawyers  in  their 
wigs  hurrying  to  the  courts,  law  clerks  with  blue  bags; 
tradesmen  were  at  the  doors  of  their  shops;  men  stood  on 
the  pavements,  gossiping  about  the  weather.  A  chilling 
sense  of  the  size  and  imperturbability  of  this  great  city 
oppressed  George.  What  would  the  day  bring  forth? 
Revolution?  Death?  Would  night  see  him  in  Carlton 


238  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

House,  flushed  with  victory?  In  gaol?  Or  flung  down 
in  some  cobbled  alley,  on  a  dust-heap  in  the  fields,  dis- 
membered, riddled,  hacked  and  trampled  out  of  human 
shape  ? 

But,  as  they  drew  near  the  Fields,  they  found  them- 
selves wedged  between  crowds  of  people  proceeding  in 
the  same  direction,  and  his  spirits  rose.  Before  long, 
these  crowds  would  know  his  name.  Before  long,  England 
should  ring  with  it.  The  coaches,  clattering  out  of  the 
capital  at  night,  would  spread  the  news  far  afield,  and 
soon  it  would  reach  the  little  hamlet  by  the  sea.  His 
hurried  departure  from  the  inn  would  be  forgotten  in  the 
startling  news  that  so  soon  he  had  made  himself  master — 
one  of  the  masters — of  England.  He  fancied  the  gaping 
mouths  and  breathless  comments  of  peasants  and  fisher- 
men in  the  taproom  of  the  Running  Horse.  He  imagined 
the  circle  formed  round  the  table,  perched  on  which  one 
of  the  men — Stebbings,  very  likely — would  read  out  from 
the  gazette  the  full  report  of  his  share  in  the  revolution. 
Oh,  he  could  almost  hear  the  muttered  ejaculations  of  the 
listeners.  "My  wig,  now!  George  Kennett!  He  must  ha' 
been  a  likelier  fellow  than  we  thoft  him,  then. "  And  John 
would  hear — and  Bess  would  hear. 

Almost  before  he  realised  it,  they  reached  their  desti- 
nation. Clerkenwell  was  a  district  of  which  he  had  little 
knowledge.  During  the  previous  century,  Spa  Fields — 
known  then  as  Ducking  Pond  Fields — had  borne  as  evil 
a  reputation  as  any  part  of  London  or  its  environs;  a  place 
ill  to  cross  at  night  without  escort,  and  by  day  the  scene 
of  rough  and  savage  sports,  duck-hunting,  bull-baiting, 
and  prize-fights  in  which  women  were  frequently  the  com- 
batants. At  the  time  of  the  riot  few  signs  were  left  of  its 
old  usages. 

Crowds  of  people  were  already  assembled,  though  the 
size  of  the  Fields  dwarfed  the  numbers,  and  gave  George 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  239 

a  momentary  sense  of  disappointment.  At  the  previous 
meeting,  on  the  20th  of  November,  Hunt  had  addressed 
the  crowd  from  a  room  in  the  Merlin's  Cave  public-house, 
and  a  number  of  people  were  now  clustered  round  its 
doors.  Others  were  waiting  in  front  of  a  chapel,  the  dome 
of  which  was  a  conspicuous  feature  of  the  Fields;  but  the 
main  body  assembled  at  one  end,  close  to  Coldbath  Fields 
Prison.  The  waggon  came  to  a  halt  about  twenty  yards 
from  the  turnpike,  near  a  tavern  which  bore  the  sign  of 
the  Cobham's  Head.  The  horses  were  hastily  taken  out. 
Thistlewood,  the  two  Watsons,  and  other  leaders  were 
waiting.  They  sprang  up  on  to  the  waggon;  others  in 
the  crowd,  without  invitation — boys  and  men — climbed 
on  after  them,  until  there  was  scarcely  standing  room. 
Young  Watson  seized  the  flags  and  unfurled  them.  One, 
a  tricolour,  bore  the  legend,  "Nature  to  Feed  the  Hungry, 
Truth  to  Protect  the  Oppressed,  Justice  to  Punish  Crimes." 
A  smaller  tricolour  flapped  in  the  wind  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  waggon.  Between  the  two,  a  kind  of  standard  was 
raised,  a  wooden  frame  with  calico  stretched  across,  on 
which,  in  red  letters,  was  the  inscription,  "The  Brave 
Soldiers  are  our  Friends — Treat  them  Kindly."  Rosettes 
and  scraps  of  ribbon  were  handed  out  to  those  who  reached 
for  them;  already  the  waggon  was  a  blaze  of  colours,  and, 
like  a  magnet,  drew  the  severed  portions  of  the  crowd 
from  all  corners  of  the  Fields. 

Old  Watson  drew  a  heavy  watch  from  its  fob,  and  looked 
at  it  nervously.  It  was  just  after  eleven.  He  cleared  his 
throat,  and  glanced  inquiringly  at  Thistlewood.  For  a 
few  minutes  they  looked  round  on  the  assembly,  and 
whispered.  Then  Dr.  Watson  pushed  his  way  to  the  front 
of  the  waggon.  A  storm  of  hand-clapping  and  cheers 
prevented  him,  for  a  few  moments,  from  gaining  a  hearing. 

" Friends  and  Countrymen !"  he  began.  "This  meeting 
has  been  convened  to  hear  an  answer  to  the  petition  which 


240  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

was  decided  upon  at  the  last  meeting  in  these  Fields. 
Mr.  Hunt  was  deputed  to  present  the  petition  in  the  hope 
that  the  Prince  Regent " 

There  was  some  ominous  groaning. 

" the  Prince  Regent  would  give  an  answer  to  the 

cries  of  starving  thousands.  The  Prince  has  resolved  to 
give  no  answer."  (Hoots,  groans,  hisses,  cries  of  "Damn 
him,"  "We'll  have  an  answer,"  "We'll  force  him  to 
answer.")  "Will  the  people  of  England  allow  themselves 
to  be  treated  with  contempt?  Have  the  ministers  done 
their  duty  in  not  hearing  the  cries  of  distress?  Has  the 
Prince  Regent  done  his  duty?"  ("No,  No!")  "Friends, 
Countrymen,  we  have  been  in  a  state  of  bondage  longer 
than  the  Israelites.  They  served  under  Pharaoh  for  four 
hundred  years;  we  English,  who  pride  ourselves  on  liberty, 
have  been  slaves  since  the  No/man  Conquest — slaves  to 
kings  and  tyrants — slaves " 

George  had  joined  mechanically  in  the  applause,  the 
groans,  the  shouts  of  disapproval.  His  eyes  wandered 
now  from  the  speaker  to  the  listening  crowd,  pressing 
and  heaving  to  the  very  wheels  of  the  waggon.  Watson's 
words  were  bold  enough,  his  manner,  on  the  other  hand, 
was  forced  and  nervous;  his  movements  were  spasmodic; 
his  face  was  pale  and  twitching.  No  leader  for  a  revolu- 
tion, this  little  elderly  doctor,  in  his  neat  clothes,  his  neat 
drab  overcoat,  with  his  air  of  old-maidish  precision.  There 
were  men  in  the  crowd  who  were  ready  for  deeds  rather 
than  for  words.  Some  faces  bore  the  stamp  of  merely 
idle  curiosity.  But  many  there  were,  pale-faced  and  large- 
eyed  with  hunger;  men  goaded  to  the  very  limit  of  endu- 
rance; tow  ready  for  the  kindling  flame.  Oh,  he  could 
move  them!  He  would  know  what  to  say,  and  how  to  say 
it.  Raised  thus  above  the  crowd,  he  saw  himself  already 
at  the  head  of  these  burly  fellows  grimed  with  hard  toil 
— these  pale  and  thin-blooded  city  workers — these  dwellers 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  241 

in  dark,  unwholesome  slums,  who  had  come  out  in  the 
hope  of  redress,  of  spoil,  of  ease,  of  relief.  George  felt 
excitement  rising  in  him,  beginning  to  master  him,  to 
carry  him  away.  What  was  the  good  of  talk  ?  They  wanted 
a  leader.  Oh,  soon — very  soon — in  spite  of  their  mapped- 
out  programme,  in  spite  of  the  pre-arranged  order  of 
speakers  from  which  he  had  been  excluded,  he  would 
spring  up,  force  his  way  to  the  front,  and  put  himself  at 
the  head  of  the  people  of  England  who  were  to  wrest,  this 
day,  the  reins  of  power  from  the  hands  of  their  oppressors. 
But  the  time  had  not  yet  come.  A  speech  or  two — a  few 
inflaming  words  from  others — and  then  he,  watching  the 
faces  of  the  audience,  would  seize  the  great  chance  of  life, 
and  send  his  name  ringing  through  the  world  and  time. 

George  could  scarcely  restrain  his  impatience,  while  the 
Doctor  droned  on,  his  dull,  precise  delivery  quenching 
the  fire  that  was  in  the  words  themselves. 

"We  must  not  have  Kings  of  this  country!" 

Evidently  Dr.  Watson  had  no  intention  yet  of  making 
an  end.  But  the  thoughts  that  were  passing  through 
George's  brain  possessed  the  younger  Watson  in  like  fashion, 
and  he  snatched  the  occasion  at  once. 

"This  man  refuses  your  petition,  and  yet  he  calls  him- 
self the  father  of  his  people!"  he  shouted,  suddenly,  spring- 
ing forward,  and  thrusting  the  Doctor  in  the  background, 
where  he  stood  a  little  disconcerted,  with  a  curious  ming- 
ling of  relief  and  chagrin  in  his  face.  "The  father  of  his 
people!  Is  it  not  the  duty  of  a  father  to  protect  his  people?" 

This  was  more  the  tone  for  his  audience;  here  was 
passion,  here  fire;  his  voice  was  almost  a  shriek,  he  foamed 
at  the  mouth  as  he  worked  himself  up  into  a  rage  of  hatred 
against  the  Regent;  and  the  mob  was  quick  to  answer 
his  appeal.  There  was  no  lukewarmness  now  in  their 
answers.  "Yes,  yes!"  they  shouted,  and  looked  each  at 
his  neighbour. 
16 


242  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

It  was  curious  how  the  slight,  pale,  sharp-featured  lad 
seemed  suddenly  transformed.  In  the  room  at  Dean 
Street,  pirouetting  round  as  he  made  his  speech,  he  had 
seemed  merely  ridiculous;  the  presence  of  the  swaying, 
thrilling  crowd  gave  him  a  measure  of  dignity — or,  if  not 
dignity,  of  importance  and  command.  George  eyed  him, 
and  listened  to  him  with  envy  and  jealousy,  but  with 
tingling  blood.  The  infection  of  revolt  caught  him,  and 
had  him  now  thoroughly  in  its  grip.  "I'll  follow  him," 
he  muttered.  "I'll  speak  to  them  when  he  finishes.  He 
sows — I'll  reap."  He  could  scarcely  restrain  himself,  even 
then,  from  rushing  forward  and  shouting,  "  I  will  lead  you! " 

"There  is  scarcely  a  luxury  he  spares, "  shrieked  Watson, 
"because  he  knows  it  comes  out  of  your  pockets.  Out 
of  your  pockets!  Will  Englishmen  be  trod  on  like  the 
poor  African  slaves  in  the  West  Indies?  We  have  asked 
for  help;  what  have  we  received?  They  dole  out  a  little 
ox-cheek  soup,  a  little  ox-bone  broth,  and  want  us  to  go 
down  on  our  knees  and  thank  them.  They  rob  us,  like 
highwaymen,  of  all  we  have;  and  tell  us  to  be  grateful 
when  they  give  us  a  penny  back  to  pay  the  turnpike.  If 
they  will  not  give  us  what  we  want,  shall  we  not  take  it?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  roared  a  thousand  throats. 

"Are  you  ready  to  take  it?" 

Again  the  roar  of  answer,  fierce  and  sinister. 

George  edged  forward.  His  throat  was  dry;  his  fists 
clenched  and  unclenched;  in  another  second  he  would 
rush  forward,  and,  thrusting  aside  Watson,  usurp  his 
place  and  influence.  Oh,  the  moment  that  he  had  longed 
for  was  waiting  for  him  to  grasp  it!  Here  were  the  people, 
ripe  for  revolt;  here  the  conditions,  leading  to  power — 
perhaps  a  throne — and  yet  he  hesitated. 

"Yes,  yes!"  "We're  ready!"  "Damn  the  Regent!" 
"Down  with  the  Government!"  "Down  with  the  op- 
pressors!" 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  243 

"Will  you  go  and  take  it?" 

"Yes!"     "We're  ready."     "Yes!" 

"  If  I  jump  down  among  you,  will  you  come  and  take  it?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  There  was  a  tumult  of  assent.  Each 
question  rang  louder,  mounting  to  the  climax;  the  air 
was  electric.  Now  fists  were  in  the  air;  sticks  and  imple- 
ments were  brandished,  weapons  produced  as  if  by  magic. 

"  Will  you  follow  me?" 

"YES!" 

There  was  a  sudden  rush.  George  felt  himself  pushed 
and  jostled;  he  sprang  forward;  the  waggon  was  empty 
in  a  second.  All  its  occupants  had  jumped  together  to 
the  ground.  The  flags  and  banners  were  wrenched  from 
their  sockets. 

Jostling,  pushing,  swaying,  cursing,  shouting,  the  crowd 
poured  towards  Coppice  Row,  the  nearest  exit  from  the 
Fields.  Some  of  the  more  cautious  broke  away,  running 
in  different  directions  to  escape  its  onset.  George  found 
himself  near  young  Watson,  who  was  rushing  on  with 
starting  eyes  and  open,  froth-flecked  mouth,  with  one 
hand  clutching  the  staff  of  a  tricolour,  the  other  brandish- 
ing a  naked  sword.  But  there  were  already  men  and  lads 
in  advance  of  them,  the  vanguard  of  the  assault  on  London. 
For  an  instant  George  caught  sight  of  the  pale  face  of 
Dr.  Watson;  he  stood,  undecided,  in  the  doorway  of  the 
Cobham's  Head;  taken  by  surprise,  evidently,  at  the 
suddenness  with  which  the  climax  had  been  reached.  His 
face  was  blotted  out.  In  the  thick  of  the  crowd  swayed 
the  banners,  the  tricolours.  Suddenly  one  flag  and  the 
framed  standard  were  dragged  down,  and  rose  again. 
"The  Runners!"  cried  some  one.  "Bow  Street  Officers!" 
Castle's  hoarse  voice  rose  above  the  tumult.  "Down 
them — out  them,  lads!"  The  mob  fell  back,  and  heaved 
forward  again;  the  man  who  had  snatched  at  the  standard 
was  down,  but  another  pair  of  hands  clutched  at  the  frame, 


244  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

and  wrenched  it  apart,  tearing  the  stiff  calico:  the  report 
of  snapping  wood  sounded  like  pistol-shots.  Watson  and 
another  man  bore  the  larger  tricolour,  unsteadily;  the 
long  staff  wavered  and  canted  like  the  mast  of  a  ship  in  a 
tossing  sea.  Hands  were  stretched  out  to  seize  it.  George 
clutched  the  staff,  joining  his  strength  to  that  of  its  de- 
fenders; he  struck  put,  with  his  free  hand,  at  the  red 
breast  of  a  Bow  Street  man  which  thrust  itself  aggressively 
in  his  way.  Fingers  were  on  his  collar,  but  he  shook 
them  off. 

The  flag  was  raised  again  at  last,  uncaptured,  though 
a  fragment  of  green  stuff  was  left  with  the  constables  to 
solace  them  in  their  defeat. 

"Weapons,  weapons!"  "To  the  Bank!  To  the  Old 
Lady!"  "No,  no,  weapons  first!  Arms,  arms!"  "Break 
open  the  gunsmiths',  my  lads! "  "  Down  with  the  Regent!" 
"To  the  Tower!"  "Yes,  to  the  Tower!  The  Old  Man, 
my  lads— the  Tower!"  "To  the  Lord  Mayor!" 

A  hundred  contrary  cries,  oaths,  imprecations,  savage 
snarlings  as  of  beasts  let  loose,  mingled  in  one  roar  of 
sound.  They  poured  into  Skinner  Street;  at  the  uproar, 
the  windows  of  the  tall  new  houses  on  both  sides  were 
crowded  with  onlookers;  shopkeepers  rushed  to  close  their 
doors  and  put  up  shutters.  All  the  concerted  plans,  all 
the  schemes  for  barricades,  for  divisions,  for  separate 
generalship,  were  swept  away  by  the  impetuous,  disor- 
ganised onrush  of  the  rabble.  The  leaders  were  carried 
with  it.  Young  Watson  had  given  the  flag  to  other  hands; 
he  ran  on,  shouting,  mouthing,  waving  sword  and  pistol. 
Preston  limped  as  fast  as  the  others  with  the  aid  of  his 
stout  stick.  They  scarcely  led  now,  but  were  carried  by 
the  resistless  force  of  the  stream  of  men.  But  here,  in 
Skinner  Street,  was  a  rallying-point  for  disaffection.  Al- 
ready the  mob  was  beginning  to  splay  out,  to  stream  into 
byways,  to  split  up  into  smaller  groups.  "Here,  my  lads, 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  245 

here  are  weapons!"  screamed  Watson;  George  echoed 
the  cry. 

"Weapons,  weapons!  Arms,  arms!"  The  shout  passed 
like  an  echo.  Men  flocked  together.  The  unlucky  gun- 
smith, struggling  under  a  heavy  shutter,  was  thrust  aside. 
In  an  instant  the  door  was  blocked  with  rioters;  others, 
unable  to  enter,  broke  the  glass,  and  smashed  in  the  shutters 
that  were  already  fixed,  with  their  mattocks  and  pick- 
axes. 

For  a  few  seconds  George  tried  to  force  his  way  in. 
He  looked  round;  Watson  was  running  on,  alone,  to 
another  gunsmith's  farther  down  the  street.  George 
followed  him  to  the  door. 

A  customer,  a  plump,  pink-faced  young  man,  was  talk- 
ing to  the  assistant  in  the  doorway.  He  turned  his  head 
at  the  uproar,  and  found  himself  face  to  face  with  young 
Watson.  "Arms!  Arms!  Arms!"  cried  Watson,  stamp- 
ing twice  with  his  foot,  and  brandishing  his  pistol.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  scuffle;  at  the  same  moment  the  pistol 
barked,  and  the  customer  fell  back  into  the  arms  of  the 
assistant.  "I  am  hit,"  screamed  the  customer,  his  pink 
face  going  suddenly  white;  "he  has  hit  me  in  my  stomach. 
For  God's  sake,  fetch  me  a  surgeon.  Don't  let  him  go. 
Don't  let  him  go. " 

"No,  sir,  he  shan't  go."  The  man  shouted  an  order  to 
a  lad  who  was  in  the  shop,  "Roberts,  fetch  the  constables." 
George  was  on  the  threshold  of  the  shop.  He  saw  Watson 
fling  down  the  pistol  on  the  'prentice's  bench,  and  turn 
almost  as  pale  as  his  victim.  "Oh,  my  God!"  he  cried, 
"I  am  a  misled  young  man;  I  have  been  to  Spa  Fields, 
but  I  am  a  surgeon;  I " 

"No,  no,"  screamed  the  customer,  "bring  a  surgeon 
—bring  one,  for  God's  sake — don't  let  him  go — he  has 
hit  me  in  my  stomach."  There  was  surprise  and  indig- 
nation almost  as  much  as  pain  in  his  cry,  "  my  stomach — 


246  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

my  stomach. "  It  would  have  been  laughable  under  other 
circumstances,  the  pink-faced  young  man's  concern  at  the 
indignity  offered  to  his  anatomy.  Sense  of  ownership  ran 
all  through  that  cry;  the  "my,"  even,  was  emphasised 
in  George's  fancy.  He  had  seen  men  sobbing  in  battle, 
as  they  bit  cartridges,  and  played  the  parts  of  heroes. 
He  had  heard  them  laughing  and  chuckling  insanely  to 
themselves.  And  now,  in  the  intense  excitement  of  the 
moment,  he  caught  himself  laughing  almost  hysterically. 
"My  stomach!  My  stomach!" 

Everything  had  passed  in  a  few  seconds,  while  he  stood 
hesitating  on  the  threshold.  He  turned  to  call  the  crowd, 
swarming  like  flies  round  the  shop  across  the  way.  Sud- 
denly he  was  thrust  aside  by  a  posse  of  men  whom  the 
'prentice  had  collected — surgeon,  constables,  and  neigh- 
bours. They  entered  the  shop  and  closed  the  door. 

George  ran  across  the  road.  When  he  reached  the  mob, 
the  looting  was  nearly  ended;  the  shop  was  ransacked 
almost  from  end  to  end — guns  had  gone  from  the  windows, 
pistols  and  cutlasses  from  their  racks;  boxes,  crates, 
drawers,  cupboards,  had  been  flung  or  wrenched  open; 
their  contents — arms,  canisters  of  powder,  bags  of  bullets 
—had  been  taken  and  shared  out.  George  seized  a  brace 
of  pistols  and  ammunition,  which  had  been  overlooked, 
and  then  shouted  his  news.  No  one  heeded.  They  seemed 
drunk  with  success.  Many  were  still  in  the  shop;  others 
swaggered  and  stood  yelling  on  the  pavement.  They  were 
like  bandits  or  buccaneers  out  of  hand.  Coal-heavers, 
"navigators"  from  the  canal,  butchers  and  drovers  from 
the  markets,  dockside  labourers  and  river  loafers,  had 
armed  themselves  from  the  gunsmith's  stock  after  their 
own  choice,  or  strength,  or  luck.  Some  had  an  armoury 
of  pistols  and  knives  and  cutlasses  in  their  belts.  Some 
staggered  under  the  weight  of  heavy  guns;  two  or  three 
men  had  a  gun  on  each  shoulder.  The  less  fortunate  were 


EDWIN  •  F  •  13AYHA 


HALT!      HALT!"      HE  ORDERED. 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  247 

fighting  to  wrest  weapons  from  the  successful.  One  man 
was  already  firing  wildly  in  the  air.  But  very  few  had 
knowledge  enough  to  cock  or  load  a  weapon. 

If  they  were  only  disciplined!  If  only  half  these  men 
had  learnt  their  lesson  in  the  stern  school  of  war!  George 
shouted  in  vain,  at  first,  that  young  Watson  was  a  prisoner. 
His  voice  was  disregarded;  each  man  had  a  tongue  and 
no  ears.  "Halt!  halt!"  he  ordered,  stepping  in  front  of 
some,  and  appealing  to  them  frantically  to  hear  reason. 
"Castle,  for  God's  sake,  let's  halt  them,  and  arm  them 
properly — let's  teach  them  the  use  of  their  weapons.  If 
the  soldiers  come " 

"Damme,  the  soldiers  are  our  friends!"  shouted  Castle, 
mad  as  any.  "On,  my  lads — on  to  the  Tower " 

"Watson's  in  there,  I  tell  you!"  shrieked  George,  as 
they  were  sweeping  by.  The  soldier's  instinct  of  camara- 
derie made  him  insistent.  The  cry  was  at  last  taken  up. 
"Watson!  Watson!" 

"We'll  have  him  out."  "Break  the  house  down." 
"Smash  the  windows." 

A  brewer's  man  smashed  the  first  window  with  a  stout 
staff;  other  blows  followed.  Men  began  to  hammer  at 
the  framework  of  the  door,  at  the  door  itself.  Suddenly 
some  one  at  the  back  of  the  crowd  raised  a  shout.  "There 
he  is!  There's  Watson!  There's  our  leader!" 

He  was  at  an  upper  window,  and  the  attack  on  the 
shop  went  on  with  redoubled  fury.  The  assistant,  pale 
and  excited,  opened  the  door. 

"What  do  you  want,  my  good  folks?"  he  cried,  tremu- 
lously. "Go  about  your  business;  there's  nothing  the 
matter.  I'm  one  of  you." 

"Tower  Hfll!    Tower  Hill!" 

Some  belated  stragglers  from  the  crowd,  almost  bowed 
down  with  the  weapons  stolen  from  the  other  shop — 
staggering,  one  or  two,  with  as  many  as  a  dozen  guns 


248  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

apiece  clasped  in  their  arms,  and  shouldered — raised  the 
cry  afresh,  not  knowing  the  cause  of  the  stoppage. 

"Tower  Hill,  my  boys!"  echoed  the  assistant,  in  vain 
hopes  of  saving  his  own  master's  stock.  He  flung  up  his 
arms.  "Tower  Hill!  Tower  Hill!"  He  waved  them 
towards  the  city,  as  if  to  scatter  them  like  chickens.  At  that 
moment,  Watson  thrust  his  way  past  him,  with  a  pistol  in 
each  hand.  "Here  are  arms,  my  boys;  help  yourselves." 

They  poured  into  the  shop,  and  ransacked  it  like  the 
other.  At  last  Watson  led  them  on;  there  was  the  glint 
of  madness  in  his  eyes,  and  he  was  shrieking  hoarsely 
and  incoherently.  Men  were  firing  wildly,  at  random, 
towards  the  winter  sky.  There  was  no  semblance  of  dis- 
cipline or  order.  George  knew  that  a  score  of  troopers 
could  scatter  them  like  sheep.  Thistlewood  was  near 
him,  flourishing  a  sword;  his  dark-blue  overcoat,  of  French 
pattern,  was  flung  open,  showing  a  coat  of  lighter  blue 
beneath,  white  breeches,  and  top-boots.  "General  Thistle- 
wood,"  cried  George,  seizing  his  arm,  "can't  we  do  any- 
thing? It's  useless,  this.  Let's  halt  them,  and  make 
them  listen  to  reason." 

Thistlewood  looked  at  him  vacantly  for  a  second,  then 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "What  can  we  do?"  he  said. 
"We've  weapons  now — we'll  get  more — they'll  learn  to 
use  them  when  there's  need.  .  .  .  On,  on!"  he  shouted. 
"Forward,  my  lads — to  the  city!" 

They  poured  into  the  Exchange;  some  passed  round  it, 
drifting  from  the  main  body.  George  was  carried  into 
the  building,  where  the  statues  of  the  English  kings  looked 
down  on  this  strange  rabble.  "The  Lord  Mayor!"  shouted 
some;  two  gentlemen,  with  a  marshal  in  bright  uniform, 
and  five  constables,  were  waiting  in  the  Exchange,  having 
hurried  there  on  the  first  news  of  the  riot.  The  Lord 
Mayor  tried  to  address  the  mob,  but  could  not  make  him- 
self heard  above  the  tumult. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  249 

"Shut  the  gates!"  he  ordered,  at  last,  and  the  constables 
ran  to  close  them.  George  slipped  out  just  as  the  heavy 
gates,  forced  back  on  their  hinges,  imprisoned  the  tail  end 
of  the  crowd,  Hooper  among  them.  A  couple  of  men 
turned  to  fire  their  pieces  below  the  gates;  but  there  was 
no  organised  effort  to  rescue  the  prisoners.  Already  the 
rabble  had  dwindled  down  to  a  few  hundreds  of  reckless, 
excited,  witless  men.  "To  the  Tower!  To  Tower  Hill!" 

On  the  rise  of  the  hill,  one  on  either  side  of  the  Minories, 
were  gunsmiths'  shops;  the  crowd  clustered  round,  batter- 
ing down  the  shutters,  breaking  the  windows,  and  looting 
at  their  pleasure.  Here  they  gained  a  few  adherents. 
They  swept  on  again  towards  the  Tower.  Two  sailors 
trundled  along  a  brass  three-pounder  found  in  one  of  the 
shops;  a  third  pushed  the  carronade  from  the  rear  with  a 
marlin-spike.  Perhaps  there  were  four  hundred  men  left, 
now,  of  the  thousands  who  had  assembled  in  Spa  Fields. 
Most  of  these  had  arms.  Women,  mad  drunk,  with  their 
hair  streaming  like  the  harpies  of  Saint  Antoine,  ran  with 
the  men,  brandishing  fowling-pieces  and  swords.  A  great 
drayman,  wielding  an  antiquated  pike,  was  purple-faced 
with  hoarse  shouting.  One  or  two  faces  stamped  them- 
selves on  George's  memory.  Now  and  then  a  gun  went 
off,  by  accident,  or  fired  at  random. 

George  raced  on  ahead  of  the  crowd.  For  a  moment 
or  two  he  led  them.  Thistlewood,  still  waving  his  sword, 
was  close  behind  him.  The  Tower,  grey  and  grim,  guarded 
by  its  stone  ramparts  and  stagnant,  evil-smelling  moat, 
was  at  last  before  them. 

And  then,  suddenly,  rose  a  shout  that  spread  through 
the  mob  like  a  panic.  "The  soldiers!  The  soldiers!" 
George  glanced  over  his  shoulder,  and  saw,  above  the 
heads  and  between  the  raised  weapons,  the  blue  and  red 
of  the  Queen's  Lancers,  and  the  glitter  of  sun  on  steel. 
The  rioters  were  trapped  between  the  Tower  and  the 


250  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

soldiers!  If  the  men  on  the  ramparts  chose  to  fire — if  the 
Lancers  charged — they  would  be  shot  or  cut  down  to  the 
last  man.  And  yet,  even  while  he  realised  that  the  game 
was  lost,  George  made  another  effort  to  win  the  great  stake. 

"Stand  firm!  Stand  firm!"  he  shrieked.  "Fight  now, 
or  be  slaves  for  ever!  I'm  a  soldier,  I'll  lead  you.  Men 
with  pikes  and  swords,  kneel  down  in  front. "  Oh,  if  only 
the  familiar  words  heard  so  often  in  the  wars  meant  any- 
thing to  these  men!  The  simplest  orders  had  to  be  framed 
in  words  fit  for  the  comprehension  of  children.  "The  rest 
load  and  be  ready — behind  the  others."  But  the  mere 
threat  of  soldiery,  the  mere  glimpse  of  these  men,  riding 
jauntily — not  fast,  not  in  anger — slowly,  smiling  and 
good-tempered — turned  all  the  braggarts  to  trembling 
cravens  on  the  instant.  Watson  had  vanished;  Castle 
and  Preston  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  "  The  Brave  Soldiers 
are  our  Friends — Treat  them  Kindly!"  What  unconscious 
irony  in  the  motto  on  the  captured  standard,  and  the 
mob's  obedience!  But  the  troopers,  some  half  hundred 
in  all,  were  still  at  the  far  end  of  the  street.  George  caught 
at  one  big  fellow  near  him;  held  him  by  the  coat  a  second: 
"Fight,  man;  fight,  if  they  won't  join  us!"  The  man 
spat  in  his  face,  and  tore  himself  away,  scuttling  like  a 
rabbit  down  a  dark  alley  that  was  already  choked  with 
fugitives.  In  twenty  seconds  the  crowd  had  scattered, 
flinging  down  their  weapons  as  they  ran. 

George  rushed  on,  stumbling  over  guns,  staves,  swords. 
Thistle  wood  was  ahead  of  him.  In  the  kennel  lay  the 
carronade,  overturned,  with  one  wheel  off  and  the  other 
spinning.  George  rushed  to  the  edge  of  the  dark  moat. 
Thistlewood,  several  yards  away,  was  under  one  of  the 
closed  gates  of  the  Tower,  waving  his  sword  and  shouting 
reckless  promises  to  the  garrison. 

Behind  the  ramparts,  at  the  top  of  the  high  wall  beyond 
the  moat,  George  could  see  the  grinning  faces  of  the  guards- 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  251 

men,  and  the  upper  part  of  their  scarlet  coats  and  their 
accoutrements.  These  were  the  men  who,  in  the  Stone 
Kitchen,  had  listened  to  the  schemes  of  the  conspirators, 
grumbled  with  them  about  grievances  and  injustice,  and 
sworn  that  they  would  be  ready,  when  the  time  came, 
to  throw  in  their  lot  with  the  rebels. 

"Open  the  gates!"  he  cried.  "Surrender  the  Tower. 
All  London's  in  arms.  You'll  have  your  commissions  to- 
night if  you  join  us.  A  hundred  guineas  to  each  man  who 
opens  the  gates  to  us!" 

The  men  turned  aside,  made  some  jesting  remarks 
which  he  could  not  hear,  and  went  on,  unmoved.  Abso- 
lute contempt  set  the  crown  on  the  day's  failure.  They 
were  not  even  ordered  to  open  fire. 

The  Queen's  Lancers  came  jingling  up  the  littered, 
empty  road.  All  was  over.  The  tumult  and  the  shouting 
had  died  away.  The  immense,  disordered  crowd  which 
had  poured  that  morning  from  the  Fields,  flooding  the 
city  streets,  filling  them  with  sound  and  fury,  had  broken 
and  turned  and  been  absorbed  again  in  the  ocean  of  Lon- 
don's life — leaving  behind  only  this  medley  of  abandoned 
spoil,  like  wreckage  tossed  up  and  left  by  some  great 
winter  wave.  .  .  . 

Well,  all  was  over;  and  the  great  Revolt  had  failed. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

EORGE  stood  for  a  second  or  two  under  the  Tower, 
alone,  and  dazed  by  the  completeness  of  the  disaster. 
The  cavalry  were  only  a  few  yards  from  him,  when  he 
came  to  his  senses.  Life  and  liberty  were  left — if  little 
else.  The  instinct  of  self-preservation  seemed  to  hustle 
him  away,  forcibly,  almost  against  his  will.  He  found 
himself  running. 

He  dashed  round  the  Tower — heedless  where  he  went 
— and  ran  on  and  on,  through  narrow  streets  and  dark 
alleys.  He  wanted  to  stop  and  think ;  he  wanted  to  collect 
his  scattered  wits;  but,  as  he  ran,  he  felt  a  kind  of  panic 
rising  in  him.  Capture  meant  gaol,  gallows,  a  traitor's  end. 
Some  boys  stopped  their  play  in  a  squalid  court  and  ran 
after  him,  shouting;  a  man  in  a  doorway  tried  to  trip  him 
up.  He  realised  suddenly  that  he  was  still  grasping  a 
pistol  he  had  stolen.  Wherever  he  went,  it  marked  him 
out  as  one  of  the  defeated  rebels.  But  it  would  be  useful 
if  he  had  to  turn  at  bay.  He  slipped  it  in  his  pocket,  and 
ran  on. 

At  last  he  stopped  in  a  dark  doorway,  gasping  for 
breath.  There  were  no  sounds  of  pursuit.  He  was  in  a 
poor  neighbourhood,  utterly  unknown  to  him;  and  here, 
perhaps,  the  sight  of  a  man  running  from  justice,  or  hurry- 
ing from  the  scene  of  robbery  or  brawl,  was  too  familiar 
to  excite  much  notice. 

His  throat  was  dry;  he  was  hoarse  with  shouting;  the 
stench  of  gunpowder  was  in  his  nostrils  still.  He  crept 
cautiously  at  last  from  his  hiding-place.  In  a  street  near 
by,  he  saw  a  swinging  sign,  the  Fortune  of  War — and  on 
the  board  were  painted  the  emblems  of  soldiers'  luck,  the 
gold  chain  and  the  wooden  leg.  No  gold  chains  to  reward 

262 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  253 

his  fortunes!  He  cursed  the  yelling  crowds  who  had  turned 
tail  at  the  clatter  of  fifty  troopers'  horses,  and  robbed  him 
of  all  that  the  morning  sun  had  promised. 

George  entered  the  tavern,  and  called  huskily  for  drink. 
He  tossed  off  the  tankard  of  porter,  and  put  his  hand  in 
his  pocket  for  the  money.  He  was  still  in  a  sweat  after 
his  long  run;  but  an  icy  shiver  ran  through  him  as  he 
felt  through  pocket  after  pocket.  They  were  empty,  save 
for  the  pistol  and  a  few  small  articles  of  little  value. 

The  barman  waited  with  outstretched  palm. 

"I — I've  been  robbed!"  cried  George.  "My  God,  I've 
been  robbed!  Every  penny's  taken!  I  had  three  guineas 
when  I  came  out  this  morning,  and " 

" Oh,  I've  heard  that  tale  before, "  said  the  man.  "Come, 
out  with  your  money,  unless  you  want  me  to  fetch  a 
constable.  Three  guineas?"  He  looked  contemptuously 
at  his  customer,  with  his  grimed,  perspiring  face,  his  clothes 
and  boots  spattered  with  London  mud.  "Why  don't  you 
say  a  thousand?  Won't  cost  you  any  more.  You  must 
mean  a  thousand  guineas,  my  lord.  Come,  out  with  it; 
you  don't  have  me,"  he  said,  his  voice  changing. 

"What  is  it,  Charlie?"  cried  a  woman's  shrill  voice 
from  an  inner  room.  The  landlady  came  out,  a  large, 
fair-haired  woman  in  the  prime  of  life,  with  a  double  chin, 
and  little,  good-natured  eyes  set  in  a  plump,  round  face. 

"Here's  a  man  won't  pay  for  his  drink,  Mrs.  Moggett, " 
said  the  barman.  "He's  the  Prince  Regent,  I  should 
think,  from  the  way  he  talks.  Will  you  go  for  a  constable 
while  I  keep  him  here?" 

The  landlady  turned  her  lazy,  good-humoured  eyes, 
half-buried  in  rolls  of  fat,  upon  her  customer. 

"Why  won't  you  pay,  young  man?"  she  squeaked. 

George  repeated  his  statement.  Perhaps  the  abject 
misery  or  the  dazed  confusion  of  his  looks  confirmed  it. 
"You're  from  the  country,  ain't  you?"  she  piped,  with 


254  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

her  plump,  ringed  hands  resting  on  the  counter.  "  'Ow 
much  'as  he  had,  Charlie?" 

"Pint  of  porter,  mum,  and  bolted  it  down  as  if  he  was 
afraid  I'd  ask  him  for  the  money  before  he  could  finish 
it.  An  old  trick,  that.  If  you'll  go " 

"Well,  I  don't  know  as  'ow  a  pint  of  porter'll  ruin  me, 
Charlie.  You  should  look  after  your  pockets,  young  man. 
Where  do  you  live?  If  I  let  you  go,  will  you  bring  me  the 
money  afterwards?" 

"God  knows  where  I'll  get  it  from,"  said  George. 
"They've  taken  every  penny.  But  I'll  pay  you — I'll  pay 
you,  if  you'll  let  me  go." 

"Likely,  that,"  growled  the  barman.  "You're  a  deal 
too  haffable,  Mrs.  Moggett — that's  what  you  are.  I 
wouldn't  let  him  go  like  that.  Pay  you?  Oh,  yes.  He's 
only  to  go  to  the  Bank,  and  draw  out  a  million,  and  he'll 
pay  the  twopence  on  his  way  back.  Shouldn't  wonder 
if  he'll  bring  me  a  hundred  for  myself — I  don't  think." 

"Well,  I'll  trust  you,  young  man.  Only  don't  come  in 
here  again  after  you've  'ad  your  pockets  picked,  because 
another  time " 

George  mumbled  his  thanks  and  went  out. 

He  hurried  away  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the  tavern, 
lest  the  good-nature  of  the  landlady  should  be  overcome 
by  the  barman's  remonstrances.  Arrest  on  a  charge  like 
this  might  lead  to  more  serious  consequences.  But, 
directly  he  had  turned  the  corner,  he  stopped  to  think. 
The  blow  had  stunned  him.  Some  one  in  the  crowd,  at 
all  events,  had  profited  by  the  riot.  A  crushing  sense  of 
misery  and  humiliation  took  the  place  of  wild  excitement 
and  mad  ambition.  He  was  in  a  black  mood;  not  a  ray 
of  light  broke  the  gloom  of  a  day  that  had  opened  so 
gloriously,  and  promised  such  a  brilliant  close.  He  had 
had  his  chance  of  making  history — and  the  game  had 
gone  against  him.  So  often,  in  imagination,  he  had  pictured 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  255 

himself  with  others  under  him,  bending  them  easily  to  his 
will.  How  lamentably  he  had  failed!  How  impotent  he 
had  been  to  gain  control  even  over  the  rabble  of  the  London 
slums!  And  Fate,  whose  child  he  thought  himself,  had 
slyly  fumbled  in  his  pockets  for  his  little  wealth,  while 
he  was  dreaming  of  power,  and  palaces,  and  fairy  gold. 
This  was  the  last  touch  of  irony.  This  was  the  grim  chuckle 
of  Life  as  it  checkmated  him. 

He  even  laughed  himself,  bitterly,  silently.  It  was  so 
fine  a  finish  to  the  jest.  The  board  was  swept  so  thor- 
oughly. He  was  alone  and  friendless  in  London;  penniless; 
without  anywhere  to  turn  for  food  or  bed. 

Nothing  was  left  him — nothing — but  liberty  to  starve, 
and  a  worthless  life  to  fling  away. 

He  took  out  the  pistol,  but  his  courage  failed  him.  He 
had  seen  so  many  men  die  by  bullet;  memories  of  old 
death-agonies,  of  strong  men  screaming  in  pain  or  terror, 
of  grim  tragedies  that  the  Provost-Marshal's  pistol  had 
ended  after  Ciudad,  and  at  other  times  and  places,  rose 
before  him,  and  made  him  hesitate.  One  could  never  be 
sure.  Perhaps  drowning  would  be  an  easier  death;  they 
said  so.  He  went  on  towards  the  river. 

The  tide  was  out.  It  was  growing  dusk  now;  a  pool 
of  barges,  moored  near  the  centre  of  the  stream,  showed 
very  black  under  the  wintry  sky;  lights  twinkled  from 
two  or  three  windows  already,  and  were  reflected  on  ooze 
and  oily  water.  But  up  river  sunset  lingered  still;  the 
sky  was  like  an  angry  furnace,  aflame  with  sullen  red  and 
copper,  broken  and  darkened  by  masses  of  smoky  cloud. 
Two  or  three  small  boats  were  canted  over  in  the  slime. 

He  went  down  to  the  beach,  under  the  shadow  of  London 
Bridge.  The  foreshore  was  littered  with  the  debris  of  a 
great  city.  Broken  bottles,  old  boots,  carcases  of  rats 
and  drowned  dogs,  had  been  washed  up  and  left.  A  few 
mudlarks  were  playing  near  him  in  the  growing  darkness. 


256  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

He  shuddered  at  the  thought  of  wading  out — the  mud 
squelching  beneath  his  boots,  filling  them,  dragging  him 
back — into  water  deep  enough  for  his  purpose.  And  he 
could  swim. 

He  went  up  the  steps  again,  to  the  bridge.  He  stood, 
for  some  time,  leaning  over  the  stone  parapet,  and  watch- 
ing the  oily  eddies  far  below,  the  black  water  slipping 
through  the  arches.  What  would  happen  if  he  jumped? 
He  wondered  whether  he  would  sink  at  once,  stunned  by 
the  dive;  whether  he  would  fight  for  life,  and  be  dragged 
under  at  last  by  the  weight  of  his  drenched  clothing; 
whether  there  might  be  an  attempt  at  rescue.  It  was  not 
pleasant,  the  thought  of  choking  out  one's  life  in  that 
dark,  foul  stream.  His  imagination,  so  deft  an  artist, 
turning  everything  to  gay  or  gloomy  pictures  in  his  brain, 
showed  him  the  unclean  river-bed  in  which  he  might  soon 
be  lying,  with  the  refuse,  with  the  tragic  remnants,  of 
London's  long  history.  Or  would  he  drift  up  river  towards 
the  pleasant  inland  country — bare  now,  though,  and 
hidden  under  winter's  mists?  Or  towards  the  sea — towards 
the  shore  of  home,  like  a  prodigal  returning  from  the  husks? 

He  would  jump  feet  foremost,  and  keep  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  if  he  could,  to  prevent  striking  out  instinc- 
tively. He  slipped  his  hands  in,  and  felt  a  knife,  John's 
present,  which  set  his  thoughts  suddenly  at  a  tangent. 

It  would  be  useless  to  try  and  sell  his  pistol;  that  would 
lead  at  once  to  his  arrest.  But  the  knife  was  a  stout  one, 
and  might  bring  him  a  few  coppers.  A  curious  whim  seized 
him.  He  thought  of  the  fat  landlady  at  the  Fortune  of 
War.  She  was  the  last  living  soul  who  had  done  him  a 
kindness  or  given  him  a  friendly  word.  He  had  promised 
to  repay  her,  and  here  was  his  opportunity.  It  struck 
him  as  odd  that  such  a  trifle  should  lie  on  his  conscience 
at  this  moment,  but,  small  as  the  debt  was,  whimsical  as 
the  excuse  for  delay,  he  turned  back  towards  the  city. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  257 

It  would  be  one  honourable  deed  to  fling  in  the  scale  against 
his  many  sins.  One  person,  at  least,  in  all  this  world  of 
millions,  should  think  well  of  him  in  the  hour  of  his  death. 

He  found  a  pawnshop,  and  raised  a  few  coppers  on  the 
knife.  He  hurried  to  the  tavern,  and  entered  it.  The 
landlady  was  standing  at  the  bar,  arms  akimbo. 

"There's  your  twopence,  mum,"  he  said,  curtly;  "I 
promised  I'd  bring  it  back." 

He  was  going  out  hastily,  when,  recovering  from  her 
surprise,  she  called  him  back. 

"Young  man!     I  say,  young  man!" 

George  stopped  at  the  door. 

"You  needn't  'urry  off  like  that.     'Ere,  Charlie!" 

The  barman  came  out,  tankard  and  dust-cloth  in  his 
hands. 

"Hullo!"  he  said;  "trying  the  dodge  on  again,  is  he? 
You've  come  to  the  same  shop  twice  over,  my  boy,  and " 

He  stopped  short,  seeing  the  pennies  in  the  landlady's 
chubby  hand. 

"Strike  me  dead!"    he  gasped. 

"There,  I  told  you  'e  was  honest, "  squeaked  his  mistress, 
triumphantly.  "I  liked  'is  face,  and  I  don't  often  make 
a  mistake.  You're  out  of  work,  I  suppose,  young  man? 
'Ungry,  ain't  yer?  Nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  nowadays. 
I  don't  know  'ow  half  the  poor  folks  in  London  '11  get 
through  this  winter,  that  I  don't.  There's  been  rare  doings 
to-day,  I  hear;  and  no  wonder,  poor  things,  when  they've 
nothing  to  eat  or  give  their  wives  and  little  'uns.  I  only 
hope  we  shan't  see  what  'appened  in  them  old  Bible  times 
again;  people  eating  each  other — I  shan't  stand  much 
chance  if  they  start  that,  being  fat. "  She  laughed  huskily. 
"  A  'ungry  man  came  in  here  begging,  the  other  day,  and 
he  looked  at  me  so  hard  it  sent  the  shivers  down  my  back. " 

"That's  why  you  gave  him  threepence  out  of  the  till, 
I  suppose,"  growled  Charlie. 
17 


258  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

K  Well,  what  if  I  did?  It's  my  own  money,  I  suppose? 
You  use  your  tongue  too  free,  Charles.  Little  enough  we 
can  do  to  'elp  in  this  world,  Gawd  knows;  but  now,  set 
down  there,  young  man,  you're  in  no  'urry.  When  did 
you  'ave  a  meal  last?" 

The  barman  shook  his  head  and  groaned. 

"Seven  o'clock,"  muttered  George.  The  day's  incidents 
had  almost  driven  out  the  thought  of  hunger;  at  the 
mention  of  food  he  realised  his  lack  of  it. 

Without  a  word,  Mrs.  Moggett  rolled  into  the  inner 
room,  and  came  out  with  a  cheese  and  half  a  loaf.  "  Now, 
'elp  yourself,"  she  said.  "What'll  you  drink  with  it? 
Charlie,  pour  him  out  a  glass  of  porter.  Charlie,  do  you 
'ear?" 

He  ate  and  drank  ravenously.  The  landlady  stood 
watching  him,  her  face  beaming  with  smiles. 

"What  part  of  the  country  do  you  come  from,  now?" 
she  asked.  "Kent?  Lor,  now,  my  pore  mother  came 
from  there;  Cobham  she  lived  at.  I'm  London  born,  I 
am;  but  she  took  me  down  there  once  when  I  was  a  little 
gel.  I  just  remember  it;  a  big  park  there  was  I  used  to 
play  about  in,  and  the  rabbits!  Lor,  you  should  have  seen 
the  rabbits!  She  often  told  me,  pore  dear,  'ow  she  took 
me  through  a  barley-field  for  the  first  time,  and  I  said  I 
never  knew  where  shrimps  grew  before.  You  know  'ow 
barley  is,  all  spikey,  don't  you?" 

She  rambled  on,  and  drew  George  on  to  talk  between 
mouthfuls  of  bread  and  cheese. 

"Well,  good-bye,  young  man,"  she  said,  at  last,  when 
he  had  finished,  "I  wish  you  luck;  mustn't  say  die,  you 
know.  I  'ope  you'll  soon  get  a  job."  She  stretched  a 
fat  arm  across  the  counter,  and  patted  George  on  the 
shoulder  with  her  plump,  soft  hand. 

He  was  warmed  and  cheered,  in  body  by  the  food  and 
drink,  in  heart  by  the  woman's  friendliness  and  sympathy. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  259 

Her  words  of  praise  for  his  honesty  tingled  through  him, 
like  generous  wine.  Small  seeds,  scattered  by  a  humble 
sower,  her  smiles  and  gifts  and  words;  but  they  sprang  into 
hopes  and  new  courage,  and  George  stepped  briskly  from 
the  tavern  door,  ready  again  for  life's  burden. 

He  must  find  work.  The  rich  West  drew  him,  where, 
in  an  hour  or  two,  theatres  would  be  opening,  and  chairs 
and  coaches  waiting  before  great  houses.  Even  a  few 
pence,  to  tide  him  over  the  first  day  or  two  of  waiting, 
would  now  be  welcome.  In  half  an  hour  he  found  himself 
in  Fleet  Street,  near  the  inn  where  he  had  breakfasted. 
His  few  possessions  were  within,  but  there  were  risks  in 
trying  to  remove  them  which  he  hesitated  to  face.  He 
loitered  near  for  a  few  minutes;  then,  drawn  by  a  curious 
fascination,  wandered  into  Dean  Street,  and  stood  watching 
the  house  where  they  had  discussed  so  sanguinely  the  plot 
which  had  ended  in  so  disastrous  a  fiasco. 

It  was  about  half-past  six;  the  dark,  narrow  street 
seemed  to  share  his  gloom  and  depression.  George  was 
just  leaving  it  when  the  two  Watsons  brushed  past  him, 
and  knocked  at  the  door  of  their  house.  He  ran  up  and 
caught  Dr.  Watson  by  the  arm. 

"Dr.  Watson!" 

The  little  surgeon  jumped  as  if  all  Bow  Street  had 
suddenly  clapped  hands  on  him. 

"Good  heavens!"  he  cried;  "eh,  man,  what  a  start  ye 
gave  me!  Come  in,  come  in  the  house.  What  a  day! 
Oh,  what  a  day!" 

Young  Watson  was  fumbling  with  flint  and  steel,  and 
swearing  as  spark  after  spark  failed  to  catch  the  tinder. 

"Close  the  shutters,  James,  close  the  shutters."  The 
doctor  ran  himself  to  carry  out  his  own  instructions. 
"What  a  lamentable  business,  to  be  sure,  Kennett!  They 
can't  see  in  from  the  street?  Oh,  get  the  lamp  alight, 
James,  and  let  us  be  quick."  His  teeth  were  chattering. 


260  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Even  before  the  room  was  fully  lighted,  he  was  flinging 
open  drawers  and  cupboards  nervously,  and  dragging  out 
their  contents. 

"I'm  lighting  it  as  fast  as  I  can,"  growled  his  son. 
"Everything's  wrong  to-day.  The  cursed  thing  won't 
catch.  What  on  earth  are  you  doing  now?  We  can't 
take  all  these  things.  Keep  calm,  for  goodness'  sake. 
If  you'd  kept  your  head  to-day,  and  led  your  men  straight 
towards  the  city " 

"What  could  I  do,  James?  They  wouldn't  listen," 
said  the  older  man,  wringing  his  hands.  "I  am  persuaded 
now  that  the  time  was  not  ripe.  I  am  fully  persuaded 
that  the  people  were  not " 

"Oh,  put  the  things  together,  and  don't  talk.  If  we 
don't  keep  our  heads  now,  we  shan't  have  a  chance  of 
keeping  them.  Keep  calm,  and  we  may  have  a  chance 
of  getting  safe  out  of  London." 

In  the  light  of  the  lamp  the  room,  like  the  street  out- 
side, seemed  in  keeping  with  their  dejection;  a  funeral 
party  might  have  just  entered  it  from  the  graveside — its 
life  had  gone  out.  The  furniture  was  the  same — familiar, 
and  yet  looked  changed.  In  the  grate  were  charred  papers, 
lying  as  they  had  been  left  before  the  start.  A  hand- 
kerchief, flung  down  by  some  one  early  that  morning, 
lay  in  a  corner  untouched;  and  some  glasses,  used  over- 
night by  George  and  his  companions,  stood  in  the  places 
where  they  had  been  last  set  down,  unwashed,  and  with 
the  dregs  still  in  them.  It  seemed  strange  that  so  much 
could  have  happened,  and  the  room,  with  all  its  silent 
reminders,  have  waited  like  this  for  their  return. 

Dr.  Watson  and  his  son  were  dragging  shirts  and  other 
articles  of  clothing  from  the  heaped  mass  on  the  floor, 
and  rolling  them  into  bundles.  Often  they  clutched  at 
the  same  garment;  they  squabbled  like  children,  and  it 
would  have  been  difficult  to  say  which  of  the  two  was  the 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  261 

more  agitated.  Both,  it  was  evident,  had  a  very  lively 
horror  of  the  scaffold.  George  was  almost  ignored  in  their 
haste  to  get  away. 

"What  happens  now,  Dr.  Watson?"  he  asked,  at  last. 
"I'm  in  a  worse  hole  than  any  one,  seems  to  me;  one  of 
our  fine  army's  picked  my  pockets  and  cleared  me  out. 
What  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"Every  one  for  himself  now,  Kennett;  sauve  qui  pent. 
We've  failed;  I  am  convinced  now,  as  I  say — James, 
shall  I  have  room  for  the  yellow  vest? — we're  going  to 
the  country,  to  Northampton — 

His  son  interrupted  him  with  an  exclamation,  half 
anger,  half  despair.  "Good  God!"  he  cried,  "are  you 
going  to  shout  that  in  everybody's  ears?" 

"I  didn't  shout,  I  spoke  quite — really,  James,  you 
forget  yourself.  You  tell  me  to  be  calm  and  collected, 
and — where's  the  string?  Oh,  here  it  is — you  exhibit 
no  self-command  whatever.  I  am  distressed,  naturally; 
distressed  and  disappointed,  but  I  am  quite  calm.  I  am 
pairfectly  calm.  I — eh,  man,  who's  that?"  He  ended 
with  a  gasp,  clutching  his  son's  arm.  There  was  a  gentle 
knocking  at  the  door.  After  a  minute's  suspense,  Thistle- 
wood  and  Preston  were  recognised  and  admitted. 

"Well,  this  is  a  pretty  business,"  said  Thistlewood, 
gloomily,  pacing  the  room.  "These  London  crowds! 
I'll  head  a  flock  of  Lincoln  sheep  next  time,  before  I'll 
trust  them.  A  Paris  mob  would  have  had  the  Tower  with 
only  half  the  weapons.  Well,  it's  over.  Are  you  ready? 
Where's  Hooper?" 

"They  took  him  in  the  Exchange,"  said  Preston. 

"  King's  evidence,  then,  if  we're  not  sharp.  Hurry  up, 
Watson.  Here,  I'll  fasten  it."  Dr.  Watson  gave  up  his 
bundle  like  a  lamb.  "  You're  not  coming  with  us,  Preston?" 

"No,  I'll  hobble  off  to  my  own  hole,"  said  Preston. 

"Well,  good-bye,"  and  he  turned  to  George. 


262  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"I  reckon  I  may  as  well  come  along  with  you,  though. 
I'm  cleared  out " 

"But  we're  going  to  friends,"  said  Thistlewood.  "Oh, 
come  along  then.  We'll  talk  later.  There's  seven  striking 
now." 

They  went  out,  George  and  Thistlewood  walking  briskly 
in  front,  the  two  Watsons  following  at  a  few  paces'  distance. 
None  of  them  spoke.  It  was  a  dark  night,  with  a  keen  air; 
but  many  people  were  about,  and  every  now  and  then  they 
heard  snatches  of  conversation  bearing  on  the  day's  events. 
Two  pursy  shopkeepers  were  congratulating  themselves  on 
the  suppression  of  the  riot.  "They  were  going  to  loot 
London  to-night,  Mr.  Jenkins,  if  they'd  succeeded,"  said 
one.  "I  hear  they  broke  into  twenty  shops " 

"Twenty!  More  like  a  hundred,  Mr.  Burge, "  said  the 
other.  "Why,  a  man  told  me  just  now  there  were  thirty 
people  killed." 

When  the  tradesmen  were  out  of  earshot,  Thistlewood 
said,  abruptly,  "Were  any  killed?" 

"  I  don't  know.  Young  Watson  shot  one  in  his  stomach," 
said  George.  A  queer  memory  of  the  day,  that  incident 
of  the  pink-faced  customer.  "I  don't  think  he  was  hurt 
much,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause. 

"He'll  make  no  difference  to  Watson's  neck,  one  way  or 
another,  if  we're  caught,"  said  Thistlewood,  and  fell 
silent. 

All  were  tired  and  a  little  footsore.  Now  and  then  one 
yawned.  But  George's  eyes  were  wide  enough  awake  to 
note  every  incident,  each  passer-by.  A  curious  day  of 
his  life  this,  stranger  even  than  any  strange  day  of  his 
campaigns.  What  would  be  the  end  of  it?  What  would 
be  the  end  of  anything,  of  everything?  A  prim  little  girl, 
with  big  eyes,  and  hair  very  trimly  braided,  was  looking 
out  of  a  large  window  in  a  large,  solemn  house  in  Gray's 
Inn  Road.  He  wondered  what  she  made  of  the  world 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  263 

she  looked  out  upon.  Would  she  ever  be  homeless?  If 
she  lived,  she  would  think  some  time  or  other  (for  every 
moment  makes  its  own  memory)  of  this  large  window, 
and  this  solemn  house,  and  the  little  prim  girl  who  once 
looked  out  on  the  passing  show. 

A  hackney  coach  clattered  by,  creaking,  and  pulled  up 
at  another  house.  An  elderly  lady  came  out  when  the 
door  of  the  house  was  opened;  two  girls,  pretty  and  young, 
followed  her.  They  were  well  wrapped  in  shawls,  and 
were  chattering  nineteen  to  the  dozen  about  some  party 
they  were  bound  for.  One  had  dancing  blue  eyes,  and  fair 
curly  hair  struggling  to  escape  from  her  hood;  the  other 
was  dark,  and  George,  catching  her  eye  for  a  brief  second 
as  she  followed  her  mother  to  the  coach,  found  his  head 
filled  instantly  with  thoughts  of  Bess.  Was  she  still  at  the 
inn?  Or  were  John  and  she  themselves  homeless  wander- 
ers— perhaps  even  in  London?  A  horn  sounded,  and  the 
mail  dashed  past,  on  its  way  to  the  Great  North  Road. 
No  coach  would  carry  his  name  to-night  to  the  distant 
hamlet  by  the  sea.  And  to-morrow  night?  He  won- 
dered. 

As  they  reached  the  outskirts  of  town,  the  four  men 
walked  together,  talking  more  freely.  George  saw  clearly 
that  only  his  knowledge  of  their  plans  made  him  free  of 
their  company,  and  determined  the  more  resolutely  not 
to  be  shaken  off.  They  supped  at  an  inn  near  Hampstead, 
and  stayed  some  time  smoking  and  drinking,  the  elder 
Watson  paying  the  score  for  all.  It  was  past  ten  when 
they  took  the  road  again,  making  for  Finchley. 

Opposite  Highgate  Church  one  of  the  Bow  Street  horse- 
patrols  was  stationed,  and  blocked  the  centre  of  the  road. 
George  was  a  yard  or  two  behind  the  others.  They  were 
edging  past  when  the  man  turned  his  horse's  head. 

"Where  are  you  bound  for?"  he  asked,  gruffly. 

"Northampton,"  said  Dr.  Watson. 


264  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"You're  late  starting,  then."  He  made  a  sign  to  two 
watchmen  who  were  lounging  against  the  railing  of  the 
church,  and  they  came  closer.  "Show  me  your  bundle." 

"With  pleasure,"  said  the  elder  Watson,  and  held  it 
out.  But  quick  as  thought  the  man  stretched  out  his 
other  hand,  while  his  right  seemed  ready  to  receive  the 
bundle,  and  tore  the  doctor's  coat  open,  dragging  out  his 
pistol.  He  clapped  it  to  the  surgeon's  head.  "Move  a 
finger  and  I'll  blow  your  brains  out!"  he  shouted.  "Help 
here!  Thieves,  thieves!  Help,  in  the  King's  name!" 

All  had  happened  in  a  few  seconds.  Thistlewood  and 
the  younger  Watson  drew  their  own  weapons,  and  George 
heard  the  click  of  cocked  hammers,  but  no  report.  Both 
pistols  missed  fire.  One  of  the  watchmen  sprang  his 
rattle.  George  and  the  other  two  took  to  their  heels, 
leaving  Watson  still  covered  by  the  pistol.  Men  poured 
out  of  a  little  inn  near  the  church,  and  after  them  came 
the  landlady,  uttering  shrill  cries  of  alarm.  "Stop 
thief!  Stop  thief!"  the  patrol  was  still  shouting.  The 
watchmen  sprang  at  Thistlewood  and  dragged  him  down. 

"Why  don't  you  ride  after  the  others?"  shouted  two 
or  three  voices. 

"  Leave  your  prisoner  with  us. " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  know  these  gentlemen, "  said  the  landlady. 

There  was  the  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  road. 

Young  Watson  took  to  the  fields,  but  the  patrol  was 
close  at  George's  heels,  and  he  had  no  time  to  turn.  He 
had  drawn  his  pistol,  but  the  thought  that  it  would  be 
evidence  against  him  flashed  across  his  mind,  and  he  flung 
it  into  a  ditch  by  the  roadside,  where  it  fell  noiselessly  into 
dead  leaves  and  mud.  He  raced  on,  back  in  the  direction 
of  London,  gasping,  stumbling,  the  horse  gaining  on  him 
at  every  stride.  He  was  two  hundred  yards  or  so  from  the 
church,  and  had  already  given  himself  up  for  lost,  when 
the  sound  of  a  scuffle  among  the  group  near  the  railings 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  265 

reached  his  ears,  followed  instantly  by  loud  shouts.  "  Helpl 
help!  Come  back,  he's  armed.  Don't  let  him  go!  Take 
the  knife  from  him!" 

The  patrol  dragged  his  horse  back  on  its  haunches;  it 
slid  a  yard  or  so,  and  was  wrenched  round.  George  turned 
his  head.  The  light  of  the  watchmen's  lanterns,  hung  on 
the  railings  of  the  church,  showed  a  knot  of  swaying, 
struggling,  shouting  men.  Old  Watson,  armed  only  with 
his  sword-stick,  was  making  a  brave  fight  for  liberty,  but 
a  hopeless  fight,  for  the  horseman  was  already  clattering 
back  towards  the  church  as  fast  as  spurs  could  speed  him 
to  secure  his  prisoner. 

Five  minutes  before,  the  conspirators  had  been  smoking 
their  pipes  on  the  high  road  and  talking  of  their  prospects. 
Now  Dr.  Watson  was  a  prisoner;  Thistle  wood  was  no 
doubt  already  being  hustled  towards  the  watch-house  at 
Somers  Town;  young  Watson  was  hidden  somewhere  in 
the  blackness  of  the  fields;  and  George  was  again  alone, 
friendless  and  almost  penniless. 

He  hurried  back  towards  London,  that  great  Alsatia 
of  the  destitute.  Near  the  inn  where  they  had  supped 
he  saw  its  many  lights  glittering  below  him,  and  its  vast 
huddle  of  roofs  under  the  dark  sky.  He  stopped  for  a 
minute  or  two  on  the  crest  of  the  hill.  This  was  the  city 
which  should  have  been  the  first  prize  of  their  success. 
Its  wealth  and  poverty  were  at  his  feet.  As  Don  Cleofas 
was  shown,  from  the  steeple  of  San  Salvador,  all  Madrid 
open  before  him,  its  walls  and  roofs  like  unclouded  glass, 
so  imagination  showed  George  now  this  greater  city. 
People  sleeping,  loving,  hating,  drinking,  gaming,  praying 
— men  plotting  crime,  committing  it,  waiting  in  the  death- 
cell  for  its  punishment — women  tending  the  sick — the 
poor  crying  with  cold  and  hunger,  the  rich  staking  fortunes 
on  dice  or  cards — he  saw  them  all.  Lives  were  beginning, 
and  death's  stealthy  tread  was  on  some  thresholds.  Lights, 


266  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

and  watchfires,  and  these  busy  haunts  of  men,  could  not 
frighten  death  away;  terror  and  misery  could  not  be  shut 
out,  though  London's  million  herded  there  below  him, 
frightened  of  the  vacant  country,  and  seeking  security 
and  comfort  in  their  numbers. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all? 

He  wandered  on  aimlessly — "towards  the  gate  of  God," 
as  the  Arabs  say,  journeying  without  a  goal.  A  sleepy 
watchman,  "more  coat  than  man,"  emerged  from  his 
box  near  a  city  square  to  call  the  hour.  Two  men,  clad 
heavily  in  furs,  stood  on  their  club  steps  and  cursed  the 
cold  while  waiting  for  a  coach.  And  below  a  lamp,  not 
many  yards  away,  crouched  an  old  woman,  ragged,  with 
white  hair,  and  a  sweet,  wrinkled,  patient  face;  but  she 
was  crying  softly  with  cold  and  hunger. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  everything?  Was  this  world 
a  stage,  and  life  but  a  long,  unending,  busy  play  for  the 
gods  to  watch  from  their  places  in  high  heaven?  A  farce? 
A  comedy?  It  seemed  so.  There  must  be  watchers, 
laughing  at  the  hot  loves,  the  fierce  ambitions,  the  hates, 
the  hopes,  the  pride  of  all  these  little  strutting  players. 
George  laughed  at  himself,  bitterly.  He  had  hoped  and 
schemed  for  a  crown;  and  in  his  pocket  were  three  coppers, 
spoil  of  the  busy  day.  He  wandered  by  Carlton  House, 
and  from  the  Palace  heard  the  sounds  of  music,  and  on 
the  blinds  of  windows  saw  the  shadows  of  the  dancers. 
The  Palace  he  had  coveted!  The  Palace  where  he  and  his 
companions  were  to  sleep! 

He  slept,  instead,  under  an  archway  near  the  Adelphi, 
with  his  coat  shielding  him  imperfectly  from  the  cold. 
The  moon  rose,  like  a  lamp  hung  in  the  sky  above  the 
world  for  the  watching  gods. 

"I'm  not  meant  to  be  hung,  at  any  rate,"  muttered 
George,  thinking  of  his  escape;  and  at  last,  worn  out  by 
his  adventures,  fell  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

DAYS  of  almost  ominous  calm  followed  the  night  of 
George  Kennett's  departure  from  the  Running 
Horse.  His  name  was  never  unnecessarily  mentioned, 
and  by  and  by,  when  the  gloom  which  his  going  cast  over 
the  lives  of  the  dwellers  at  the  inn  had  disappeared — 
receding  from  their  sky  like  the  last  clouds  of  tempest 
— John  and  Bess  found  themselves  sharers  in  an  almost 
unbelievable  happiness.  "Autumn's  Rest"  the  bright 
days  that  come  between  fall  and  the  stern  approach  of 
winter  are  often  called;  it  was  Autumn's  Rest  now,  in- 
doors and  out;  in  their  hearts,  as  well  as  in  fields  and 
woodlands.  Huntingdon's  action  had  relieved  the  pres- 
sure of  immediate  necessity.  Now  that  foreclosure  was 
no  longer  to  be  presently  feared,  they  could  breathe  freely 
again  and  look  round  them.  His  gift  of  guineas,  which 
Bess  had  guarded  in  her  room,  more  than  counterbalanced 
the  money  George  had  taken  from  the  till.  "We  must 
live  a  week  at  a  time,  and  be  thankful,  Bess,"  said  John. 
"We'll  do  our  best,  and  then  take  no  more  anxious  thought 
for  the  morrow.  They  hope  the  bank'll  pay  out  a  dividend, 
and  some  of  the  money  that's  owing  us  ought  to  come  in 
soon.  Even  if  we  haven't  all  we  want  when  the  mortgage 
money's  due  again,  it  won't  be  like  dealing  with  a  stranger. 
I  did  your  feyther  an  injustice,  lass;  and  I  feel  downright 
shamed  at  thinking  no  better  of  human  nature."  But  a 
shade  passed  over  his  face  as  he  remembered  how,  in  one 
instance,  he  had  been  so  terribly  and  so  easily  deceived. 
Their  life,  for  a  time,  passed  like  another  honeymoon. 
Without  admitting  it,  they  felt  relief  at  being  alone  for 
the  first  time  since  their  marriage.  There  was  no  longer  a 
third  party  always  sharing  their  meals,  joining  in  their 

267 


268  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

counsels,  making  light  of  their  suggestions  and  plans,  and 
endeavouring  to  force  another  will  on  theirs.  They  realised, 
through  George's  absence,  the  difference  his  restless,  un- 
stable, turbulent  nature  had  made  to  their  comfort  and 
peace.  He  was  like  one  inmate  in  a  room  who  is  always 
rising  to  fling  open  doors  and  windows,  to  rearrange  this, 
to  find  fault  with  that.  The  windows  he  flung  open  looked 
out  on  a  world  many-coloured  and  dazzling — a  world  of 
adventure,  of  fascination,  of  tempting  voices  and  eager, 
beckoning  hands;  but  a  world  the  roads  of  which  were 
shut  against  them,  and  the  vision  of  which  meant  only 
vain  longing  and  profitless  discontent.  They  went  to 
church  on  Sundays  now,  and  came  back  undisturbed  by 
caustic  jeers  at  the  words  to  which  they  had  just  been 
listening.  They  found  a  new  delight  in  walking  back  in 
the  quiet  evenings  under  the  old  trees,  the  trees  under 
which  Ridley  and  his  generation  walked,  on  that  far-off 
Sunday  when,  within  the  grey  walls  of  Herne,  the  praise 
of  God  was  for  the  first  time  in  all  England  chanted  in  our 
English  tongue.  The  red  blinds  in  the  cottages,  brightening 
the  village  as  the  days  shortened  and  rushlights  were 
kindled  early  in  the  rooms,  gave  them  a  sense  of  friendly 
homeliness  that  stayed  with  John  and  Bess  when  they 
closed  their  own  door,  and  pulled  their  own  blinds  close, 
and  sat  over  the  fire  together — alone. 

Delilah  Gummer,  too,  was  no  longer  in  the  state  of 
constant  friction  which  found  its  only  relief  in  groans  and 
outbursts  of  gloomy  wrath. 

At  first,  indeed,  she  found  the  injunction  not  to  discuss 
George's  departure  a  sore  burden.  She  hugged  her  knowl- 
edge like  the  Spartan  youth  his  fox,  and  found  an  indirect 
way  of  relieving  her  feelings  when  the  gnawing  secret 
almost  forced  her  to  release  it.  John,  during  the  first  few 
days,  heard  her  droning  hymns  that  bore  very  pointedly 
on  the  occasion,  and  punctuating  them  with  appropriate 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  269 

comments  of  her  own.  Her  unmelodious,  whining  voice 
broke  into  louder  song  with  relish,  whenever  Judgment 
Day  was  reached,  and  the  last  trumpet  shook  the  skies, 
and  the  pit  mouth  gaped  for  sinners.  John  left  her  the 
relief  and  consolation  of  these  hymns,  which  served  the 
purpose  of  a  safety  valve,  and  prevented  the  explosive 
revelations  which  must  otherwise  have  found  vent,  when- 
ever inquiries  were  made  about  George,  and  her  triumphant 
vindication  of  her  many  prophecies  trembled  on  her  lips. 
Delilah  had  Stackhouse's  great  Bible  among  her  few 
treasures,  and  had  tried  to  fortify  herself  against  scoffers 
by  reading  his  suggested  objections  to  Holy  Writ,  and  their 
refutation.  Now  she  found  time  to  study  the  text  rather 
than  the  commentary,  with  more  profit  to  herself  and 
more  ease  to  her  employers.  Unfortunately,  George  had 
a  disconcerting  way  of  asking  questions  much  deeper  than 
those  which  Stackhouse's  imaginary  unbelievers  only 
raised,  like  ninepins,  in  order  that  his  arguments  might 
strike  them  down.  It  was  pathetic  to  see  her  spelling  out 
laboriously  such  sentences,  for  example,  as  this:  "Angels, 
indeed,  are  wise  and  powerful  beings,  and  their  knowledge 
of  Nature,  by  the  Application  of  Actives  and  Passives, 
may  in  some  measure  enable  them  to  form  an  Insect" — 
but  not  to  create  man.  And  George  would  not  trouble 
his  head  much  about  discrepancies  in  the  story  of  creation. 
Had  he  asked,  for  instance,  why  God  should  have  troubled 
to  make  man  and  woman  at  different  times  and  by  different 
methods,  instead  of  in  the  same  manner  and  on  the  same 
day,  she  would  have  been  ready  at  once  with  Stackhouse's 
Socratic  answer:  "What  if  God,  willing  to  show  a  pleasing 
Variety  in  His  works,  condescended  to  have  the  matter, 
whereof  the  woman  was  formed,  pass  twice  through  His 
Hands,  in  order  to  soften  the  Temper  and  meliorate  the 
Composition?"  But  George  always  took  an  unfair  ad- 
vantage by  asking  questions  not  in  the  book  and  not 


270  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

prepared  for.  "If  God  created  Adam,  who  created  God? 
You  say  there  must  have  been  a  Creator  to  start  with." 
Poor  Delilah,  though  firm  in  her  belief,  had  no  answer, 
like  so  many  wiser  than  herself.  She  was  forced  back  at 
once  into  her  last  entrenchment,  "It's  true  because  it  is, 
and  I  only  hope  you  won't  find  it  out  when  it's  too  late. " 
She  would  take  up  the  question  of  the  ark,  again  using  the 
authority  of  the  great  volume  which,  in  its  day,  perplexed 
Lamb  and  other  imaginative  children  and  made  their 
night-dreams  terrible  with  its  appalling  pictures.  "People 
who  don't  know  nothing  ax  how  all  that  daffy  of  animals 
could  live  there  so  long  without  food — 'cause  the  food'd 
take  up  more  room  than  they  had  to  spare  on  board. 
And  they  show  how  ignorant  they  be,  not  looking  round 
all  sides  of  a  question,  Must'  George.  Them  animals 
hadn't  been  used  to  being  in  a  ship,  for  one  thing,  and  if 
they  was  sea-sick — as  it's  ten  chances  to  one  they  were — 
Stackhouse  says  they  wouldn't  have  no  stummick  for  their 
wittles " 

"I  don't  care  whether  they  had  room  in  the  ark  or  not," 
George  would  say.  "That  don't  bother  me.  What  I  say 
is,  if  God  is  love,  He  wouldn't  have  destroyed  the  world  like 
that." 

"  He  done  it  because  of  the  world's  wickedness, "  retorted 
Delilah,  promptly. 

"If  He  wanted  'em  to  be  good,  then  why  didn't  He 
make  'em  good?  Don't  talk  to  me  about  the  devil.  Who 
made  the  devil?  God  too?  If  He's  all-powerful,  as  you 
say  He  is " 

"Look  here,  Must'  George,"  Delilah  would  say,  angrily, 
"I  ain't  got  no  more  time  to  waste  argufying;  there's 
a  God  because  there  is  a  God,  and  you  know  it.  It  isn't 
likely  we  can  understand  everything,  and  I  doan't  want  to. 
You  can  talk  your  tongue  off,  but  you  can't  boffle  me  into 
believing  the  Bible's  wrong.  I  wonder  you're  not  struck 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  271 

dead  like  the  men  of  Beth-shemesh,  fifty  thousand  and 
three  score  and  ten  men,  who  looked  into  the  Ark  of  the 
Lord — and  it's  only  His  mercy  that  you're  not." 

"I  wonder  what  those  men  you're  talking  about  thoft 
of  His  mercy. " 

George's  apprehensions  about  Captain  Rockett  were  ill- 
founded;  Bess  had  said  nothing,  and  the  reason  for  his 
going  was  kept  secret,  even  from  this  near  neighbour  and 
ancient  friend.  The  less  said  the  better,  thought  John; 
they  wanted  no  washing  of  dirty  linen  in  public.  If  he 
had  suspicions,  Captain  Rockett  was  charitable  enough 
to  keep  them  to  himself.  It  was  given  out  generally  that 
George  had  gone  away  again  in  search  of  fortune.  "Well, 
well,"  said  the  little  master  of  the  hoy,  when  he  heard 
the  news,  "George'll  find  it,  too,  if  there's  fortune  to  be 
found  anywhere. 

"  'To  give  a  young  gentleman  right  education, 
The  Army's  the  only  good  school  in  the  nation,1 

the  poet  tells  us;  and  though  I  don't  hold  with  him  ezackly, 
I  reckon  George's  larned  enough  to  tell  green  lights  from 
red.  I'm  wery  sure  it'll  be  better  for  you  and  Bess,  John, 
too,  in  the  long  run.  Till  the  good  times  come  (and  they're 
coming  along  fast  now),  the  less  mouths  you  have  to  feed 
out  of  the  business  the  better.  Of  course  that's  not  saying 
he  hasn't  been  a  rare  help  to  you,  or  that  you  won't  miss 
him;  but  we've  got  to  look  on  the  best  side  o'  things." 
Bess  and  John  went  once  to  Roger  Huntingdon's,  but 
the  visit  was  not  a  great  success,  and  was  not  repeated. 
They  found  Mrs.  Huntingdon  alone,  and  very  tearful 
after  a  stormy  day.  "I  really  don't  know  what  I  shall 
do,  Bess, "  she  said,  plaintively;  "  your  father  goes  on  at  me 
so  I  hardly  know  whether  I'm  on  my  head  or  my  heels. 
He  knows  I'm  not  well,  and  he  only  makes  me  worse. 
I  get  so  confused  I  can't  do  anything  right  when  he's 


272  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

worrying  ine.  My  memory's  so  bad,  too.  I  did  an  awful 
thing  the  other  day." 

"What  was  that,  mother  dear?" 

"Why,  I  was  writing  some  letters,  and  your  father 
called  me  away  for  something,  and  was  so  cross — well, 
you  know  I  never  could  think  of  two  things  at  once.  I 
was  writing  to  Mrs.  Tom  Gedge  and  Mrs.  James,  and  I'm 
sure  I  mixed  them  up.  I  remember  directly  I  sent  the 
letters  off  that  I  must  have  asked  Mrs.  James  how  her 
husband  was  keeping,  and  told  her  I  hoped  he  wouldn't 
feel  the  cold  so  much  this  winter.  Of  course  I  meant  to 
ask  after  Mr.  Tom." 

"Well,  but  it  doesn't  matter  very  much,  mother.  I 
shouldn't  worry  about  that." 

"But  I  can't  help  it,  my  dear.  I  tremble  every  time 
I  hear  the  post  now.  James  Gedge  died  last  February, 
and  Mrs.  James'll  think  it  so  unfeeling  of  me — oh,  here's 
your  father." 

Roger  Huntingdon  had  come  in  to  supper.  He  sat 
through  the  meal  gloomy  and  almost  silent,  and  left  the 
table  before  the  others  had  finished. 

"It's  your  feyther's  turn  to  come  and  see  us  next,  Bess," 
said  John,  significantly,  as  they  walked  back  from  Edding- 
ton. 

Winter  set  in,  and  its  first  weeks  passed  almost  without 
incident,  though,  to  John's  growing  uneasiness,  they 
brought  little  money  to  the  inn.  Stebbings  came  one  even- 
ing with  the  first  news  of  the  Spa  Fields  Riot.  Watson 
and  Thistlewood  had  been  sent  to  the  Tower — strange 
irony  of  fate! — and  a  sailor  who  had  played  a  less  conspicu- 
ous part  had  been  arrested,  and  would  probably  be  hanged. 
Of  course  George's  connection  with  the  revolt  was  un- 
known to  those  who  heard  the  news.  Stebbings  waxed 
very  wroth  about  the  catastrophe,  and  the  ease  with  which 
the  riot  had  been  suppressed.  If  he  had  been  there!  He 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  273 

clenched  his  fist,  and  nodded  vigorously,  and  looked  round 
with  glaring  eyes.  Indeed,  there  were  a  good  many  people 
now  who  regretted  that  the  attempt  to  overthrow  the 
Government  had  failed.  The  coming  of  winter  meant 
distress  to  many  who  had  hitherto  kept  their  heads  above 
water.  Some  customers  left  the  Running  Horse;  more 
stayed  on,  but  only  to  add  chalk  strokes  to  scores  already 
long  overdue.  This  became  a  serious  question  with  John 
Kennett.  The  bank  gave  back  none  of  his  money;  his 
debtors  still  pleaded  bad  times.  It  was  impossible  to 
carry  on  the  business  with  only  these  long  rows  of  figures 
under  the  "P's"  and  "Q's"  on  the  board  to  represent 
stock  purchased  and  consumed.  Yet  many  of  the  peasants 
and  fishermen  were  old  customers,  and  honest  men  who 
meant  to  pay  when  they  had  the  means. 

John  was  thinking  of  going  to  consult  Captain  Rockett 
on  this  difficult  question  of  credit,  when,  one  evening, 
the  little  mariner  appeared  at  the  inn. 

The  Captain  was  in  great  distress  of  mind. 

"John,"  he  said,  "we've  lost  poor  old  Punch." 

"Lost  him?  What,  no  one's  been  and  stolen  him, 
Cap'n  Rockett?" 

"No;  passed  away, "  said  the  visitor.  " Died  this  after- 
noon at  four  o'clock.  Mrs.  Rockett's  in  a  rare  way  about 
it.  He's  been  ailing  ever  since  he  had  that  big  fight  with 
Mr.  Huntingdon's  dog,  Caesar;  couldn't  get  over  the 
thought  of  being  beat,  I  reckon.  We  gived  him  all  the 
medicine  we'd  got  in  the  house,  pretty  near;  but  'twadn't 
no  good.  I  wanted  to  ax  you  if  you'd  be  kind  enough 
to  come  and  help  me  bury  him." 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  John.     "Yes,  I'll  come." 

When  they  were  outside,  "I  didn't  like  to  say  no  more 
before  listeners,"  remarked  Captain  Rockett,  "but  I  don't 
want  you  ezackly  to  help  bury  the  poor  old  dog,  John. 
I  want  you  to  help  pretend  to  bury  him." 
18 


274  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Surprise  took  John's  breath  away. 

"You  see,  it's  like  this,"  the  Captain  went  on  to  ex- 
plain. "My  wife's  rare  set  on  Punch — always  has  been 
since  he  was  a  little  puppy.  Now,  I  know  a  man  in  London 
who's  a  great  hand  at  stuffing  animals,  and  I  thoft  it'd 
be  a  pleasant  surprise  for  her  to  have  him  done  for  her 
birthday.  He's  a  rum  shape  to  stuff,  though,  and  I  doan't 
want  to  disappoint  the  old  lady.  I  reckon  it'll  be  more 
of  a  surprise  if  we  pretend  to  bury  him  first,  eh,  and  then 
carry  him  down  to  the  hoy?" 

John  agreed,  though  he  had  some  scruples  about  the 
concealment;  and  he  and  Captain  Rockett  entered  the 
cottage,  where  Punch  lay  in  state,  with  the  ornament  of 
the  little  mariner's  Seraglio  weeping  over  him. 

"Oh,  John!"  she  said,  weakly,  holding  out  one  hand, 
while  the  other  pressed  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"Cheer  up,  my  dear!"  said  Rockett,  sniffing  himself. 
"Mustn't  be  too  downhearted,  you  know.  ...  I 
wish  I  knew  where  the  tortoise  was,  now, "  he  remarked  to 
John,  in  an  aside;  "it  might  give  her  something  else  to 
think  of,  if  I  could  only  find  it. " 

"The  tortoise!"  said  Mrs.  Rockett,  contemptuously, 
overhearing.  "Oh,  I  knew  something  dreadful  was  going 
to  happen  when  I  dreamt  about  teeth  the  other  night, 
and  now  it  has.  He's  been  just  like  a  son  to  me,  John, 
he  has  indeed.  I  never  thoft  I  could  love  a  dog  so  much. 
Me  and  Captain  Rockett  never  had  no  children,  you  see, 
John,  though  my  Aunt  Polly  promised  us  two  guineas 
for  each  christening  when  we  were  married;  and  my  sister 
had  hers  regular  for  fifteen  years.  But  I  had — Punch — 
and  now " 

"There,  there,  there! "  said  Rockett  kindly,  bending  down 
to  kiss  her.  "  Better  get  it  over  now,  John, "  he  whispered. 
"Doan't  'ee  look  out,  my  dear,  and  get  your  feelings  worse 
jiarrowed.  Take  a  glass  o'  wine,  and  lie  down  a  bit. " 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  275 

The  two  men  carried  the  dog  into  the  garden.  "She 
wants  him  buried  here,"  said  the  Captain,  indicating  a 
bed,  in  summer  always  bright  with  flowers,  opposite  the 
door  of  the  Seraglio. 

"She's  not  looking  through  the  blind,  is  she?  I  thoft 
of  cheering  her  up  by  telling  her  to  look  forward  to  seeing 
him  again;  but  she  might  have  suspected  something. 
He's  been  a  good  old  dog  in  his  time,  though,  bar  cats 
and  not  being  ezackly  what  you  might  call  a  peacemaker. 
Only  natural  she  should  have  growed  so  fond  of  him, 
when  he's  took  her  out  for  walks  every  day  for  twelve 
years,  and  looked  after  her  while  I've  been  away.  We'll 
have  to  put  some  shingle  in." 

Working  by  lantern-light,  they  raised  a  mound,  and 
patted  it  into  shape.  Then  the  body  of  old  Punch  was 
carried  stealthily  to  the  hoy,  which  was  to  start  for  London 
early  in  the  morning. 

"Queer  thing  Mrs.  Rockett  should  have  had  that  dream," 
said  the  Captain,  as  they  had  a  glass  together  in  the  cabin 
of  the  hoy.  "I  told  you  about  that  other  time  when  she 
threw  me  out  of  bed,  didn't  I?  She  dreamt  that  a  man 
was  creeping  round  to  stab  me  with  a  great  knife,  so  she 
clutched  hold  of  me  in  her  sleep — I  was  lying  there  snoring 
as  peacefully  as  a  child — and  dragged  me  over  her.  Why, 
afore  I  could  say  Jack  Robinson  she'd  pitched  me  out  on 
the  floor.  She's  bigger'n  I  am,  John,  you  know,  and  a 
powerful  fine  woman  when  she  likes  to  use  her  strength. 
'Whatever  did  you  want  to  do  that  for,  my  dear?'  says  I, 
waking  up  and  rubbing  myself.  'Oh,  James/  says  she, 
'I  had  sich  a  fright;  I  thoft  a  man  was  creeping  round  the 
bed  to  kill  you.'  'Well,  my  dear,'  says  I,  'you  gived  me 
rather  a  shock  too,  but  I  suppose  you  reckoned  you'd  put 
me  out  of  harm's  way  by  killing  me  first.' 

John  laughed,  and  his  host  went  on,  musingly:  "And 
the  wery  next  morning  we  beared  about  thieves  breaking 


276  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

in  at  Colonel  Devine's,  on  the  Canterbury  Road.  Of 
course,  it's  more  likely  to  ha'  been  the  pickled  onions. 
Well,  she'll  think  it's  a  rare  long  funeral  if  I  doan't  hurry 
back." 

John  walked  part  of  the  way  to  the  cottage  with  him, 
and  took  the  opportunity  of  asking  advice  about  the 
unsettled  scores. 

"It's  a  wery  serious  question  that,  John,"  he  said, 
"and  wants  sleeping  over.  You  don't  want  to  offend  old 
customers,  and  you  don't  want  to  be  hard  on  'em  these 
hard  times — but  chalk  'PV  and  'QV  won't  keep  you 
and  Bess  in  bread-and-butters.  I'll  think  it  over,  and 
let  you  know  when  I  come  back  from  London." 

When  Captain  Rockett  returned  three  days  later  (Punch 
being  still  in  the  hands  of  the  taxidermist),  he  walked  less 
briskly  than  usual  from  the  hoy  to  his  cottage.  Perhaps 
the  weather  had  something  to  do  with  his  depression; 
the  air  was  raw,  and  there  was  a  fine  drizzling  rain,  and 
in  the  darkness  the  sea  moaned  and  fretted  drearily,  as 
it  told  its  loneliness  to  the  lonely  winter  beach.  Even  a 
few  hours  in  the  poorer  parts  of  London,  near  the  river, 
had  shown  him  many  a  pitiful  sight,  and  told  him  many 
a  sad  story.  Here  too,  at  Herne  Bay,  the  old  tales  of 
poverty,  and  hunger,  and  hard  times  were  waiting  him. 
He  had  thought  again  and  again  over  the  fortunes  of  his 
friends  at  the  Running  Horse,  trying  to  puzzle  out  some 
way  of  helping  them. 

"It'll  be  a  hard  winter  for  many,"  he  muttered,  "and 
I  doan't  see  my  way  clear  to  lend  a  helping  hand.  My 
yarns  won't  bring  food  and  drink  to  the  belly,  nor  firing 
to  the  hearth,  worse  luck!  I  wish  I  could  do  something 
for  'em  all.  And  John  and  that  poor  little  Bess  of  his! 
Well,  God  help  all  the  poor,  I  say,  deservin'  and  undeser- 
vin',  like  He  sends  His  rain  and  sun  on  just  and  unjust. 
And  now,  James  Rockett,  put  on  a  livelier  face  to  greet 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  277 

the  missus  with.  Sour  looks  never  mended  matters  yet, 
and  you've  just  got  to  shut  your  troubles  and  other  folks' 
up  inside  you,  like  the  oak  does  his  years.  The  tree  don't 
let  you  know  how  many  storms  he's  weathered  till  you 
cut  him  open.  .  .  .  Ah,  here  we  are,  safe  and  sound 
again,  my  dear— 

"  '  Safe  from  the  billows'  angry  roar, 
I  packs  my  bundle,  and  I  steps  ashore,' 

as  Milton  says;  though  that's  poetic  license,  'cause  we've 
had  a  wery  good  voyage,  all  things  considering.  My  wig! 
you've  a  nice  fire  waiting,  Martha.  Well,  I've  no  bad  news 
about  steam-kettle  ships  this  evening;  they  told  me  in 
London  the  hoys  ain't  likely  to  be  bettered  for  a  daffy  of 
years  yet,  so  far  as  our  trade  goes.  My,  it's  cosy  indoors, 
and  good  to  be  home  again." 

But  when  they  were  in  bed  that  night,  Captain  and 
Mrs.  Rockett  had  a  little  talk  together  about  the  mis- 
fortunes of  their  neighbours,  while  the  rain  beat  against 
the  glass,  and  a  melancholy  breeze  rattled  the  windows 
in  their  frames. 

"I'm  afeared,  Martha,  that  John  Kennett  and  Bess 
are  having  a  bitter  hard  struggle,"  he  said.  "John  don't 
tell  me  much,  but  he  was  axing  about  the  scores  that 
folk  can't  pay — or  won't — and  I've  been  putting  two 
and  two  together.  I  reckon  George  didn't  go  away  for 
nothing.  He'd  have  stayed  if  there'd  been  work  and  pay 
enough.  That  wenture  of  theirs  hasn't  been  a  success. 
They're  in  want  of  money,  that's  certain." 

"  I've  thoft  of  that  for  a  long  time, "  sighed  Mrs.  Rockett. 
"And  how  they'll  get  through  the  rest  of  the  winter  I 
don't  know — nor  yet  a  good  many  others  in  Herne  Bay." 

"Worst  of  it  is,"  said  Rockett,  reflectively,  "I  don't 
see  what  we  can  do  to  help  them.  I'd  like  to.  We  ain't 
rich,  Martha,  and  the  bank  took  a  lump  out  of  our  savings. 


278  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

And  it  don't  do  not  to  look  ahead  when  them  tin  ships 
are  about — not  that  they're  going  to  interfere  with  us," 
he  added,  hastily,  "but  it's  wise  to  keep  a  sharp  look- 
out in  queer  weather.  Still,  if  they'd  only  ax  us  to  help 
'em " 

"They  haven't  done  that,  James?" 

"No,  they  haven't.  That's  just  the  difficulty.  He  has 
his  pride,  John  has.  If  'twere  only  a  matter  of  lending 
him  ten  pound  or  so — or  giving  it,  because  we  wouldn't 
starve — but  I  can't  wery  well  offer  it. " 

"We  might  give  them  the  chance  of  axing,  though, 
James.  Perhaps  we  could  make  a  chance.  Let's  have 
them  to  tea  on  Sunday." 

"Good  idea,  Martha!  A  birthday  party.  We'll  try 
that.  Perhaps  somehow  we'll  manage  to  give  John  a 
'hit " 

"Of  course,"  said  his  wife,  musing,  "Huntingdon  did 
ought  to  be  the  one." 

"He  ought,  but  I  reckon  he  won't.  He's  a — but 
there,  I'm  not  going  to  say  nothing  against  him.  Only 
old  Pinion  was  saying  he'd  knocked  down  his  wages, 
and  that  don't  seem  a  kind  thing  for  a  rich  man — oh, 
there  I  go  again,  pulling  motes  out  of  other  people's  eyes. 
But  there's  no  excuse  for  us  not  doing  what  we  can,  because 
others  don't.  Well,  we'll  talk  about  it  again  in  the  morning, 
old  lady.  Things  like  that  look  better  and  more  cheerful 
by  daylight.  I  shouldn't  have  said  anything  now,  but  I 
felt  a  bit  down,  and  I  wanted  your  advice.  Good-night,  my 
old  dear.  Doan't  you  get  lying  awake  thinking.  And 
doan't  get  lying  asleep  dreaming,  whatever  you  do." 

The  two  heads  turned  on  the  frilled  pillows,  and  loud 
snoring  soon  drowned  the  hissing  of  the  rain, 


CHAPTER  XX 

ON  the  next  Sunday  afternoon,  just  as  darkness  was  set- 
ting in,  John  and  Bess  started  from  the  Running 
Horse  for  Captain's  Rockett's  cottage.  The  garden  Sera- 
glio, in  which  many  a  glass  of  home-made  country  wine 
and  many  a  dish  of  fragrant  tea  had  been  sipped  on  old 
summer  afternoons,  had  been  closed  for  the  winter;  John 
tapped  at  the  cottage  door,  and  then  opened  it  and  entered. 

In  the  little  parlour,  a  scene  no  less  perplexing  than 
amazing  met  their  eyes.  The  cloth  was  set  for  tea;  a 
cheerful  fire  was  in  the  grate,  and  the  kettle  was  already 
purring  sociably.  But  the  attitude  of  Captain  Rockett  and 
his  wife  contrasted  strangely  with  these  indications  of 
comfort  and  domestic  peace. 

Captain  Rockett  was  on  the  horsehair  couch,  almost 
buried  under  the  body  of  Mrs.  Rockett,  whom  he  was  try- 
ing to  support.  A  razor  lay  open  on  the  carpet,  suggest- 
ing, at  first,  some  fearful  tragedy.  But  Captain  Rockett's 
face  was  smeared  with  lather,  and  he  was  dabbing  his 
wife's  brow  with  a  shaving-brush  held  in  his  one  free  hand. 

"Water!  Water!"  he  cried.  "John,  get  some  water, 
quick!  Bess,  pour  out  some  brandy  from  that  there 
bottle!" 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  gasped  Bess,  running  to  the  shelf 
where  the  bottle  stood  among  books  and  china  ornaments, 
towards  which  Rockett  was  wildly  pointing  his  soapy 
brush. 

John  took  in  the  situation  at  a  glance.  Mrs.  Rockett, 
whose  bosom  heaved  convulsively  with  her  moans,  opened 
her  eyes,  fixed  them  on  a  furry  object  in  the  centre  of  the 
patchwork  rug  before  the  fire,  and  showed  signs  instantly 
of  a  second  seizure. 

279 


280  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"All  right,  my  dear.  It's  all  right,  Martha,  I  tell  you. 
He  ain't  alive;  he's  stuffed,  that's  all.  I  didn't  mean  to 
startle  you  like  this.  .  .  .  Put  it  to  her  lips,  Bess.  That's 
better.  Sprinkle  some  water  on  her,  John;  she's  coming 
round.  Think  snuff 'd  do  her  any  good?  There's  a  box  in 
my  weskit  pocket,  if  I  could  only  get  it  out.  .  .  .  There, 
there,  you're  all  right  now,  ain't  you?" 

Slowly,  and  with  many  threatenings  of  relapse,  Mrs. 
Rockett  came  to  herself,  and  her  husband  was  extricated. 
"God  bless  my  soul!"  he  gasped,  mopping  his  brow, 
"who'd  have  thoft  he'd  give  her  such  a  shock!  I'd  no 
notion  of  alarming  you  like  that,  my  dear.  Of  course,  I 
wanted  it  to  be  a  surprise " 

"But  he  was  buried — and  his  grave's  outside!"  she 
gasped. 

"That's  only  a  whited  sepulchre,  so  to  speak,  my  dear. 
We  only  pretended  to  bury  un;  we  didn't,  really.  I  brought 
him  back  from  London  this  morning,  and  smuggled  him 
in  when  you  wasn't  looking.  When  you  went  upstairs  to 
get  ready,  I  put  him  afore  the  fire,  but  I  didn't  reckon  on 
you  getting  downstairs  first.  ...  I  heared  Mrs.  Rockett 
scream,"  he  continued,  turning  to  John,  "and  runned 
down  just  in  time  to  catch  her.  Lucky  I  had  cold  soap  on 
the  brush  to  bring  her  round  with.  She  thoft  it  was  poor 
old  Punch's  ghost.  .  .  .  Nice  bit  of  work,  ain't  he,  Bess? 
The  man  who  fixed  him  up  was  rare  glad  of  the  job,  these 
hard  times,  and  I  reckon  he's  done  the  dog  justice.  Look 
at  the  eyes;  more  natural  than  life,  I  call  them." 

No  doubt  the  glaring  eyes,  turned  towards  the  door 
and  reflecting  the  candlelight,  had  added  largely  to  Mrs. 
Rockett's  terror.  Punch's  long  body  was  even  more  shape- 
less and  sack-like  than  in  life.  Mrs.  Rockett  grew  calm 
enough  at  last  to  thank  her  husband  for  his  birthday  gift, 
but  the  shock  was  so  recent  and  the  appearance  of  her 
resurrected  pet  so  affecting  that  Punch  had  to  be  carried 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  281 

to  a  lumber  room,  to  wait  there  until  the  passage  of  time 
should  enable  her  to  look  on  him  with  equanimity  and 
pleasure. 

After  tea,  Rockett  turned  the  conversation  a  little  awk- 
wardly to  the  prevailing  distress. 

"Ay,  it'll  be  a  hard  winter  for  many,"  said  John, 
gloomily,  and  was  silent. 

"Of  course,"  said  Rockett,  "the  summer'll  make  all  right 
again.  There's  good  times  coming,  mark  my  words.  I 
adwised  you  to  enlarge  the  inn  and  be  ready,  and  it's  a 
great  thing  to  have  old  Time  by  the  forelock  the  way  you 
have.  If  you  only  wait — and  I " 

Rockett  stopped  short,  and  blew  his  nose  vigorously. 
It  was  a  difficult  subject  to  broach. 

"I — we — were  wondering " 

He  caught  his  wife's  eye,  and  screwed  up  his  forehead 
as  a  signal  for  her  to  come  to  his  assistance.  She  gave  no 
help,  and,  attempting  to  touch  her  foot  under  the  table, 
he  knocked  against  John's  instead. 

"Yes,  next  summer  ought  to  see  better  times,"  said  Bess, 
cheerfully,  breaking  an  awkward  silence. 

When  the  visitors  announced  their  intention  of  going, 
the  proposal  had  not  been  made.  In  desperation,  trying 
to  secure  a  further  opportunity,  the  Captain  suggested  a 
visit  to  Mrs.  Gowdy,  who  kept  her  room.  She  was  sitting 
in  her  hooded  chair,  and  woke  from  her  hibernation  only 
to  doze  off  again  directly  greetings  had  been  exchanged. 

"Sleeps  most  of  the  time  now,  poor  old  dear,"  whispered 
Rockett,  and  then  suddenly  plucked  up  courage.  "Look 
here,  John,"  he  said,  "I — we — there's  something,  I  mean 
to  say,  we'd  like  to  have  your  advice  about.  Me  and  Mrs. 
Rockett  have  a  little  money,  as  you  know — not  much,  but 
a  little  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door — and  we  thoft  a 
reliable  inwestment  that'd  pay  us  well  when  the  tide 
turns'd  be  a  wise  thing.  And  we — we — it's  a  deal  to  ax, 


282  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

I  know,  and  we  hope  you'll  pardon  us,  wanting  to  take  a 
share  in  the  foresight  of  other  folk;  but  it's  human  nature, 
anyway " 

Captain  Rockett  did  not  often  beat  about  the  bush  in 
this  fashion,  and  John  wondered  what  was  coming. 

"Them  scores,  now "  He  came  to  a  stop.  "Here, 

help  me  out,  old  lady,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  at  last,  desper- 
ately. "  You  know  what  we  were  talking  about.  A  man's 
tongue  didn't  ought  to  wag  when  there's  a  woman's  at 
his  elbow." 

"Get  along  with  you,  James!"  said  Mrs.  Rockett;  but 
she  came  to  the  rescue,  and  explained  that  they  wanted  to 
invest  a  little  money  in  the  Running  Horse  with  a  view  to 
future  profits.  "We  can't  spare  much,  but  it'd  be  a  real 
favour  if  you'd  let  us  put  ten  pound,  say,  in  the  business." 

Unfortunately,  Mrs.  Gowdy  came  suddenly  to  life  at  this 
moment,  and  unveiled  the  secret  which  Captain  Rockett 
and  his  wife  had  tried  to  conceal  so  delicately.  "Just  like 
James!"  she  muttered,  aloud,  but  unconsciously.  "He 
wants  to  help  'em — and  he  don't  like  to  tell  'em  so  straight 
out.  He  thoft  I  didn't  hear  'em  talking  about  it  this  morn- 
ing, but  I  heared  every  word.  Well,  it  ain't  my  place  to 
interfere,  though  it's  all  nonsense  to  pretend  they'll  see  a 
penny-piece  back  again.  ...  I  reckon  Herne  Bay'll  be  a 
grand  place  one  of  these  days,  my  dear,"  she  continued, 
addressing  Bess.  "James  always  had  an  eye  to  making 
money,  even  when  he  was  a  boy;  so  it's  only  natural — eh, 
what's  that?" 

Captain  Rockett  coughed  nervously,  and  looked  at  his 
wife  in  whimsical  distress.  John  broke  the  awkward  silence. 

"It's  real  kind  of  you,  Cap'n,  and  of  you,  Mrs.  Rockett. 
You're  old  friends,  and  if  we  asked  help  of  any  one,  we'd 
soonest  take  it  from  you,  I'm  sure.  But  I  reckon  we'll 
have  to  stand  alone  in  this.  We've  sunk  enough  money 
in  the  inn,  and  owe  too  much  already  for  goods.  I  reckon 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  283 

I  must  speak  to  the  men  about  those  scores,  and  I  hope 
we'll  be  able  to  pull  through.  But  I've  made  up  my  mind 
now — and  Bess  has  made  up  hers — that  we'll  do  no  more 
borrowing,  if  we  can  help  it.  It  ain't  fair  to  let  our  friends 
pour  money  into  it,  'cause  it  may  be  only  like  throwing  it 
down  a  well.  But  we  thank  you  kindly,  and " 

"Oh,  mother,  mother!"  cried  Captain  Rockett,  shaking 
his  finger  at  the  old  lady,  "you've  been  and  done  it 
now!" 

"Me?  Why,  I  haven't  spoke  a  word,  James,  'cept  to 
try  and  help  you.  Me,  indeed!  Well,  there,  I'm  like  the 
cat,  I  am,  to  be  blamed  for  everything,  I  suppose." 

"But,  look  here,  John,"  said  Rockett,  "between  old 
friends,  you  know,  as  you  say  yourself!  The  cat's  out  of 
the  bag,  so  we  may  as  well  be  straightforrard  about  it. 
Martha  and  me'd  really  like  to  put  some  of  our  savings  in. 
It'd  be  only  casting  our  bread  on  the  waters,  and  finding 
it  again — not  even  our  bread,  though,  our  jam  or  tobacco, 
say " 

"After  a  good  many  days,  I'm  afraid,"  said  John.  "No, 
no,  it's  real  kind  of  you " 

"Well,  I've  seen  things  come  back  again  in  a  wery  ex- 
traordinary way,  and  why  not  money?  Did  I  ever  tell  you 
of  that  poor  feller  I  read  the  burial  service  over  when  I 
was  in  the  Lydia?  No?  My  wig,  that  was  a  queer  case, 
now.  Our  carpenter,  he  was.  He  got  eat  by  the  niggers 
we  had  as  crew." 

"Eat  by  niggers?  Oh,  James!"  cried  Mrs.  Rockett, 
"you  never  told  me  that." 

"I  wasn't  wishful  for  to  harrow  your  feelings.  Fact, 
though,  my  dear.  They  eat  him  indirectly,  so  to  speak. 
We  lost  him  near  the  West  Coast  of  Africa,  wanished  as 
clean  as  a  whistle,  'a  did;  and  a  week  later  our  niggers 
found  his  breeches  buttons  and  a  gimlet  in  an  alligator 
they'd  caught  and  eat  for  supper.  The  only  thing  I  could 


284  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

do  was  to  hold  a  funeral  serwice  over  the  niggers.  We 
couldn't  put  up  a  tombstone,  of  course,  so  I  got  our  bos'n, 
who  was  a  rare  hand  at  tattooing,  to  prick  in  'Sacred  to 
the  Memory  of  John  Jenkinson'  on  their  stomachs.  We 
gived  the  fattest  nigger  'Sacred'  all  to  hisself,  and  the 
other  seven  had  four  letters  apiece.  Jenkinson 's  sisters 
were  wery  upset,  naturally,  and  they  wanted  me  on  my 
next  woyage  to  find  my  old  crew,  and  keep  his  grave  in 
order,  so  to  speak.  .  .  .  Well,  they'd  all  scattered;  but 
one  night,  when  we  were  on  shore,  we  rescued  a  native 
from  a  lot  of  cannibals  who  were  just  going  to  cook  him. 
And,  my  nable!  if  he  hadn't  T  capital  'J — o — h'  on  his 
stomach!  I  reckon  it's  about  the  first  time  a  man  ever 
got  eaten  hisself,  and  then  nearly  had  part  of  his  grave 
eaten,  too.  The  sisters  had  that  there  black  sent  to  a 
missionary  college,  and  now  he's  a  missionary  hisself. 
It's  a  great  consolation  to  them  to  know  that  their 
brother  being  dead  yet  speaketh — or  part  of  him,  at  all 
ewents." 

In  a  few  minutes  John  and  Bess  rose  to  go.  Captain 
Rockett  saw  them  to  the  gate.  "Look  here,  John,  my 
boy,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands,  "you  might  as  well  let 
me  have  a  chance  of  doing  something.  The  mostest  I  can 
do  isn't  much,  but  what's  money  for  if  it  ain't  for  us  to 
help  each  other  with?  We'm  old  friends,  and  your  feyther 
and  me  were,  too;  and  I  know  you're  worried  about  things. 
Nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  in  that;  lots  of  people  are  now, 
worse  luck!  I  can't  help  'em  all,  though  I'd  like  to;  but 
I  think  till  things  mend  a  bit — just  a  few  pounds " 

"It's — it's  real  kind  of  you,  Cap'n  Rockett,"  said  John, 
with  a  lump  in  his  throat.  "But  what's  the  use?"  he  asked, 
with  a  touch  of  bitterness.  "I  couldn't  take  it,  knowing 
that  ten  chances  to  one  I  couldn't  give  it  back.  We'll 
have  to  try  and  weather  the  storm  alone,  and  then " 

"Well,  any  time  you  want  it,  you  know,  John." 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  285 

"I  won't  forget,  Captain.  If  we  don't  ever  ask  you  for 
it,  we'll  always  remember  what  rare  good  friends  you  and 
Mrs.  Rockett  have  been  to  us,  all  along." 

"We  can't  ever  forget  that,"  said  Bess. 

Matters  at  the  Running  Horse  went  from  bad  to  worse 
as  another  year  entered  through  the  gate  of  time.  Their 
debtors  could  afford  nothing  but  vague  promises.  Their 
creditors  pressed  for  payment.  As  yet  they  had  enough 
to  keep  the  doors  open,  and  for  their  own  provision;  but 
the  time  for  paying  the  instalment  on  the  mortgage  again 
drew  near,  and  there  was  nothing  in  hand  with  which  to 
meet  the  claim.  Their  only  hope  now  lay  in  the  forbearance 
and  generosity  of  Roger  Huntingdon. 

But  when  John  wrote  to  the  solicitors,  shortly  before 
the  money  was  due,  and  told  them  the  position  of  affairs, 
their  reply,  regretful,  but  brief  almost  to  the  point  of  curt- 
ness,  caused  a  very  anxious  consultation  at  the  inn.  Unless 
the  money  was  forthcoming,  said  Jeacock  and  Wetherby, 
their  instructions  from  their  client  were  to  foreclose. 

On  the  evening  when  this  answer  came,  John  and  Bess 
sat  for  a  long  time  over  their  fire  together,  hand  in  hand, 
discussing  the  position,  and  trying  to  assure  themselves 
that  Huntingdon  would  again  release  them  from  their 
obligations.  They  based  their  hopes  chiefly  on  his  volun- 
tary gift;  surely  he  would  have  no  object  in  foreclosing — 
and,  even  from  a  selfish  standpoint,  it  would  pay  him  better 
to  give  them  another  opportunity  of  retrieving  their  for- 
tunes. In  winter  they  could  scarcely  be  expected  to  do 
this;  but  summer  might,  after  all,  see  the  turning  in  the 
long  lane  of  misfortune.  Unfortunately,  they  would  want 
money  even  to  keep  their  home  together  when  the  mort- 
gage question  was  settled;  and  this  meant  still  further  help. 

The  next  afternoon,  Bess  started  for  the  farm,  to  see 
her  father.  It  was  Delilah's  half-holiday,  and  John  Ken- 
nett  remained  behind  to  serve  chance  customers.  He  was 


286  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

getting  his  own  tea — there  was  little  enough  doing  in  the 
taproom — when  the  outer  door  opened.  A  glance  assured 
him  that  this  was  no  customer,  but  probably  one  of  the 
stream  of  beggars  who,  wandering  penniless  and  starving 
through  Kent,  often  called  at  the  inns  in  the  hope  of  re- 
ceiving a  penny,  a  crust,  or  a  drink  of  ale.  The  man — a  tall 
fellow,  but  haggard  and  thin  with  want — was  in  rags;  a 
stubble  of  some  days'  growth  covered  his  sunken  cheeks; 
his  eyes  were  wide,  and  bright  with  hunger. 

"It's  no  use  coming  here,  my  man,"  said  John,  antici- 
pating the  usual  whine.  Time  was  when  he  need  send  no 
one  empty  away.  "I've  nothing  for  you."  He  scarcely 
gave  a  glance  at  the  man's  face,  and  the  room  was  already 
growing  dark. 

The  stranger  still  stood  on  the  threshold. 

"I  tell  you  I've  nothing  for  you,"  said  John  Kennett. 
"It's  no  good  waiting.  I  mean  what  I  say.  I  know  times 
are  hard,  and  I'd  help  you  if  I  could,  but— 

"Well,  I  reckon  perhaps  you  will,  though,"  said  the  man, 
suddenly  breaking  silence.  "I've  come  far  enough  to  have 
a  drink  and  a  bite  at  the  Running  Horse.  You  don't 
know  me,  John?  Well,  and  no  wonder.  A  pretty  scare- 
crow I  am.  Make  a  good  moral  for  'Lilah's  books."  He 
spoke  bitterly,  like  a  desperate  man,  but  in  his  manner 
and  words  there  was  still  a  trace  of  his  old  jaunty  air. 

"You  can  bet,"  he  went  on,  "I  shouldn't  come  here  if 
there  was  anywhere  else  in  the  wide  world  I  could  go  for 
food.  Oh,  look  at  me.  Stare  at  me;  here's  your  revenge, 
and  plenty  of  it.  I'm  done,  I  am.  You  can  think  it's  a 
judgment,  if  you  like.  I  don't  care  what  you  think.  Give 
me  something  to  drink,  though,  for  God's  sake — just 
that " 

"George!"  gasped  John,  and  drew  back. 

"Ay,  it's  me.  I've  come  back — though  I  never  thought 
I'd  come  like  this.  I've  always  had  my  pride,  and  you  can 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  287 

reckon  how  low  misfortune's  brought  me.  Not  my  own 
fault — but  there,  that  don't  matter.  Drink,  I  say — give 
me  something  to  drink  now,  John,  and  you  can  say  what 
you  like  to  me  about — about  that  night,  while  I'm  drinking 
it." 

John's  fingers  gripped  the  handle  of  the  door;  he  tried 
to  retain  his  self-control.  But  anger  mastered  him,  and 
he  flashed  out  at  last.  "So  you've  come  back!  You're 
back,  who  I  hoped  might  never  darken  these  doors  again! 
After  all  the  misery  you've  caused — after  bringing  us  to 
poverty  with  your  mad  schemings — after — after  that 
night " 

"Oh,  I  know.  Preach  as  much  as  you  like — you  always 
were  a  one  for  that,  John — but  let's  drink  while  I'm  lis- 
tening. Poverty?  Easy  for  you  to  talk  about  that.  You 
seem  snug  enough  here  still.  Look  at  me.  Have  you  ever 
known  what  it  is  to  wear  rags  like  these?  Oh,  you  can't 
see  in  this  light;  but  'tis  bitter  weather  for  nakedness, 
and  I'm  next  door  to  that.  Bitterer  still,  when  not  a  bite's 
passed  your  lips  for  twenty-four  hours,  nor  a  drink  to 
warm  you — and  that's  worse.  I've  not  come  to  stay." 

"No,"  said  John,  and  muttered  something.  In  the  first 
days  after  that  insult  to  his  wife,  he  had  felt  murder  in  his 
heart  against  his  brother.  Sometimes  he  had  thought  of 
what  might  happen  if  they  came  face  to  face  again,  and 
had  been  afraid.  But  he  had  never  anticipated  a  meeting 
such  as  this. 

"  No,  I  don't  ask  you  to  take  me  in  again.  But,  for  old 
times'  sake,  give  me  something  to  eat  and  drink,  John — 
and  a  guinea  or  so  to  set  me  on  my  legs  again.  I  won't 
darken  the  doors,  as  you  call  it,  after  that.  It's  easy  enough 
to  preach  when  a  man's  down.  You've  had  all  the  luck, 
you  have.  Married  the  girl  who  should  have  been  my 
wife  by  rights " 

"Don't  talk  of  that,"  interrupted  John. 


288  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"Well,  I  won't.  But  here  you  are  with  a  good  home — 
that's  part  mine  by  rights,  as  you  know ' 

"George,"  broke  in  his  brother  again,  trying  hard  to 
speak  calmly,  "I'll  not  talk  with  you  of  that  neither.  I 
little  thoft — and  less  hoped — that  you  and  I  would  meet 
again  in  this  world.  You  know  as  well  as  I  that  I  treated 
you  fair  and  square.  You  know  how  you  acted.  If  you'd 
come  back  here  hale  and  strong,  I  couldn't  and  wouldn't 
have  listened  to  you  as  I'm  listening  now.  It's  just  be- 
cause I  can't  hit  a  man  when  he's  down  that  I've  listened 
so  long.  I'll  give  you  food  and  drink,  now;  it  shan't  be 
said  that  I  sent  you  away  starving;  but  you  shall  take 
them  away  from  the  house.  I  can't  give  you  money " 

"Let's  have  the  drink  first,"  said  George. 

John  went  to  the  inner  room,  and  poured  out  into  an 
old  mug  some  of  the  tea  which  he  had  just  made.  He  cut 
off  half  a  loaf  of  bread,  some  cheese,  and  a  few  slices  of 
meat,  and  rolled  them  together  in  a  piece  of  paper  torn  from 
an  old  copy  of  the  Kentish  Gazette.  "There  you  are,"  he 
said,  "you  can  take  them  away.  Money  I  can't  give 
you." 

George  snatched  the  mug,  and  put  it  to  his  lips.  He  drew 
it  back  instantly  with  a  wry  face,  and  a  muttered  oath. 

"Tea!"  he  cried.  "Good  Lord,  John,  it  isn't  tea  I'm 
craving  for.  Give  me  something  with  heat  in  it — spirits — 

"I'll  give  you  nothing  stronger.  You  shan't  say  this, 
at  all  events,  that  I've  kicked  you  any  farther  down  the 
road  you've  chosen.  Tea's  all  you'll  have — not  a  drop  of 
spirits." 

"You  can  keep  your  damned  tea!"  cried  George,  in  a 
burst  of  passion,  and  flung  the  mug  down  on  the  stones. 
"Your  mouldy  bread  and  cheese  as  well!"  He  flung  down 
the  bundle,  and  kicked  it  across  the  path.  "I'll  make  you 
pay  dear  for  this!  You  in  the  house  that's  half  mine  by 
rights — with  my  girl " 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  289 

John  slammed  the  door  in  his  face.  For  a  minute  or 
two  George  thundered  at  it,  storming  and  swearing.  The 
preventive  officer,  riding  by  at  this  moment,  saw  him  bang- 
ing with  his  fists  at  the  inn  door,  and  took  him  to  be  some 
angry  beggar,  furious  at  being  refused.  He  threw  an 
inquiry  as  he  passed,  which  George  did  not  answer. 

At  last  George  Kennett  gave  up  his  attempt  to  enter, 
and  sauntered  away,  still  swearing,  and  turning  at  every 
few  yards  to  shake  his  clenched  fist  towards  the  inn.  There 
was  no  answer,  and  the  door  was  not  opened.  The  food 
still  lay  on  the  shingle.  He  crept  back,  and,  glancing  at 
the  window  to  see  that  no  eyes  were  upon  him,  picked  up 
the  bread  and  cheese  and  meat,  covered  them  with  the 
paper,  and  stuffed  the  bundle  under  his  torn  coat. 

When  he  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  Canterbury  Road, 
he  devoured  some  of  the  food  ravenously,  saving  the  rest 
for  a  future  meal.  His  life  since  the  failure  of  the  riot  had 
been  a  long  nightmare  of  cold,  and  thirst,  and  hunger,  with 
the  dread  of  dock  and  gallows  ever  in  the  background. 
Cashman,  the  sailor,  had  been  hanged;  Thistlewood  and 
the  older  Watson  were  still  awaiting  trial.  George  scarcely 
knew  how  life  had  been  kept  together  during  those  awful 
weeks.  There  was  no  work  to  be  had  in  London.  He  had 
begged,  stolen,  earned  a  few  coppers  honestly,  now  and 
then,  by  holding  links  or  minding  horses.  At  last,  in  de- 
spair, he  had  tramped  back  painfully  towards  the  sea,  get- 
ting a  meal  here  and  there  at  farmhouses,  sleeping  in  barns 
and  outhouses  and  in  the  naked  woods. 

His  last  hope,  now — almost  his  last — had  failed  him. 
Perhaps  Huntingdon  could  give  him  work  on  his  farm. 
He  remembered  the  strained  relations  between  his  brother 
and  the  farmer,  and  thought  possibly  this  might  serve 
him.  They  were  birds  of  a  feather,  now,  he  and  Hunting- 
don, in  their  hate.  He  skirted  the  fields,  which,  one  by 
one,  Roger  Huntingdon  had  reclaimed  from  all  the  broad 
19 


290  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

acres  that  had  been  diced  away.  A  little  boy,  weary  and 
snivelling  with  the  cold,  was  scaring  birds  listlessly,  wait- 
ing for  the  end  of  his  long  day's  labour.  The  wide,  bare 
field,  with  the  solitary  little  blue-smocked  figure  alone 
breaking  its  emptiness,  seemed  to  crouch  very  low  under 
the  winter  sky.  Between  the  trees  on  the  rim  of  the  world, 
a  gleam  of  copper  told  of  the  dying  of  another  day.  George 
heard  the  monotonous,  whining,  snuffling  song  of  the  child 
as  he  plied  his  clappers — 

"  We've  ploughed  our  land,  we've  sowed  our  seed, 

We've  made  all  neat  and  gay, 
So  take  a  bit,  and  leave  a  bit, 
Away,  birds!  Away!" 

He  reached  the  white  gate,  and  hesitated.  Pinion  and 
a  young  farm-lad  were  going  up  the  rutted  lane  towards 
the  house.  He  hurried  after  them. 

"Pinion!     Job  Pinion!" 

"Ay,  ay!  Who  be  a-calling  me?  My  eyes  be  getting  too 
dim-like,  but — why,  'tis  Must'  Jarge  Kennett!  But,  my 
wig,  that  doan't  look  much  like  making  a  fortune  in  Lunnon, 
as  I  heared  you  were  doing." 

"No,  I'm  down  on  my  luck  for  a  bit."  The  confession, 
made  to  a  man  who  had  cringed  to  him  and  flattered  him 
a  few  short  months  before,  was  gall  to  his  pride.  He  no- 
ticed instantly  the  change  in  the  old  peasant's  crafty  face 
and  in  his  bearing.  The  lad  with  Pinion  was  his  grandson, 
whom  George  had  once  maltreated;  and  the  boy's  sullen 
face  lit  up  with  vindictive  satisfaction.  George  had  to 
ignore  all  this.  He  was  desperate;  after  all,  a  man  must 
live,  and  if  he  got  work  at  the  farm,  Pinion  might  even  be 
his  master. 

"Does  Must'  Huntingdon  want  hands,  do  you  know, 
Pinion?" 

"I  reckon  not.  Want  hands!  He,  he!  Why  'a  sent  dree 
men  packing  Sadderday,  'a  did.  My  wig,  though,  what  a 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  291 

sight  you  be,  Jarge!  I  thoft  of  trying  Lunnon  myself,  but 
jigger  me  if  you  look  as  if  the  streets  are  paved  with  gold. 
No,  I  reckon  you'm  corned  to  the  wrong  place  for  work. 
Leastways,  dere's  work  enough" — he  gave  a  senile,  rather 
bitter  laugh — "if  you'll  do  it  without  drink  and  wittles 
and  shillin's.  A  hard  man,  Must'  Huntingdon  be.  Knocked 
my  wages  down,  'a  has;  and  me  with  him  and  his  feyther 
afore  him  sixty-fewer  year,  boy  and  man.  Yen's  another 
of  my  grandsons  in  t 'field  bird-starving,  and  'a  earns  two- 
pence a  week,  from  dawn  to  dusk,  'a  does.  I  reckon  you'll 
be  wery  lucky  if  you  get  that  much  out  o'  Roger  Hunt- 
ingdon." 

"Well,  I'll  see,"  said  George,  and  went  up  the  rutted 
lane. 

"Bain't  no  use,"  wheezed  Pinion  after  him,  chuckling 
and  coughing.  The  lad  with  him  gave  a  jeering  laugh. 
"Lord  save  us!"  said  Pinion  to  his  grandson,  "  'a  be  a-going 
to  try.  I'll  hurry  away  to  listen,  for  Jarge  Kennett'll 
come  away  with  a  rare  flea  in  his  ear — he,  he!  How  the 
mighty  be  fallen,  to  be  sure!  I  thoft  I  was  bad  enough 
off,  but  Jarge — there,  there!  Old  Grandfer  Pinion  bain't 
such  a  vule  as  'a  looks,  arter  all.  Wunnerful  foresight  in 
me  to  marry  agen,  and  get  the  cottage.  Old  Caesar'll  grab 
un  afore  Must'  Huntingdon,  if  'a  doan't  look  out." 

Caesar  was  dragging  at  his  chain  and  barking  savagely. 
As  George  drew  near  the  door,  it  opened,  and  a  light  in  the 
hall  showed  the  faces  of  Huntingdon  and  Bess  Kennett. 

George  drew  aside,  waiting  until  they  should  finish 
speaking.  He  sheltered  for  some  moments  in  the  shadow 
cast  by  some  bushes  near  the  house.  Caesar  had  seen  the 
movement,  and  barked  and  growled  persistently. 

"Damn  that  dog!"  snarled  Huntingdon.  "Lie  down, 
sir!  .  .  .  Well,  that's  all  I've  got  to  say  to  you.  My 
lawyers  have  instructions." 

"It's  a  cruel  thing  you're  doing,  father." 


292  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"Cruel?  It's  the  kindest  I  can  do — for  you.  I'm  not 
going  to  throw  my  money  down  a  hole  to  oblige  your  hus- 
band. I've  told  you  what  I'll  do.  You  can  come  back,  on 
the  conditions  I've  named,  and  I'll  give  him  a  chance. 
I'm  a  man,  Bess,  that  gets  his  own  way  in  this  world; 
and  any  one  who  thwarts  me  finds  that  out  sooner  or  later, 
to  his  cost." 

"So  it  seems,"  said  Bess,  a  little  bitterly,  and  mused. 
"Father,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "I  was  reading  this  morn- 
ing about  the  rich  man  who  built  his  great  barns,  and 
stored  up  his  goods,  and  told  his  soul  to  take  its  ease. 
Don't  you  think,  when  God  spoke  to  that  man,  he  must 
have  wished  he  had  something  else  to  remember  than  all 
his  riches  and  his  plans — some  kindness  done  to  some  one, 
some  help  given  to " 

"I  don't  want  to  listen  to  sermons  from  my  own  daugh- 
ter," interrupted  Huntingdon,  impatiently.  "I  could 
preach  you  some  about  duty  to  parents  from  the  same  Book. 
If  the  man  had  looked  after  his  health  as  well  as  his  barns, 
he  might  have  enjoyed  his  riches.  You  won't  frighten  me 
into  changing  my  mind;  I've  never  been  afraid  of  man 
yet,  and  I'm  not  afraid  of  God.  ...  As  for  that,  I've 
helped  you.  No  one  can  say  I've  been  hard  on  you — if  I 
cared  a  copper  farthing  what  people  say  or  think !  I  might 
have  foreclosed  months  ago,  and  I  didn't.  There's  some 
of  the  gamester  in  me,  after  all ;  I  gave  you  your  chance. 
You've  lost  now,  anyhow.  I'm  not  going  to  help  your 
husband  again  to  play  his  cards  against  me.  That's  all, 
my  girl." 

"I  don't  know  what  we'll  do,"  said  Bess,  half  to  herself. 

"You'll  do  what  I  want  you  to  do.  You'll  come  back 
to  the  house  you  left  without  my  leave." 

"Never — on  your  conditions,  father,"  said  Bess,  and 
went  sadly  down  the  lane.  Huntingdon  stood  watching 
her  from  the  door.  Once  he  stepped  forward,  and  opened 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  293 

his  lips  as  if  to  call  her;  but  he  shut  them  again  resolutely, 
and  went  back  towards  the  door. 

George  had  meant  to  beg  humbly  enough  foi  work;  yet, 
for  a  moment,  the  sight  of  Bess  almost  roused  him  to  an 
angry  protest.  But  for  his  rage  against  his  brother,  he 
might  have  changed  the  purpose  of  his  visit.  As  it  was, 
there  was  more  independence  in  his  tone  than  there  would 
otherwise  have  been  when  he  stepped  forward. 

"Mr.  Huntingdon!" 

Huntingdon  was  just  closing  the  door.  He  opened  it 
again. 

"Who's  that?    What  do  you  want?" 

"I'm  George  Kennett,  sir — brother  of  John  Kennett, 
you  remember — not  that  there's  more  love  lost  between 
us,  for  that,  than  between  you  and  him.  And " 

"What's  that  to  me?"  snapped  Huntingdon.  "And 
what  the  devil  are  you  doing,  lurking  in  my  grounds? 
Pinion,"  he  shouted,  "is  that  you  there?" 

"Yes,  Maister,"  said  Pinion's  quavering  voice.  "I  was 
a-coming  up  to  ax  you,  sir " 

"Go  to  the  kennel,  and  let  Caesar  off  his  chain  directly 
I  tell  you  to.  Now,  if  you've  anything  to  say,  Kennett, 
be  sharp  about  it.  What  are  you  mumbling?  Want 
work?  I  thought  so.  Every  beggar  seems  to  come  here 
to  bleed  me.  I've  no  work  for  you.  Go  off.  Do  you  hear? 
Out  of  my  grounds,  I  say!" 

George  snarled  a  threat. 

"Oh,  you  won't  go?  Pinion,  let  the  dog  loose,  and 
we'll  see.  Here,  Caesar,  Caesar!  Oh,  you  can  shout 
and  threaten,  my  man.  If  you  value  your  skin,  I'd 
advise  you  to  run.  A  fine  family  my  daughter's  mar- 
ried into!" 

George  saw  there  was  nothing  to  be  gained  by  stopping. 
He  ran  down  the  lane.  Pinion's  grandson  was  in  his  way; 
he  struck  at  the  lad  blindly  as  he  passed.  Just  in  time, 


294  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

he  slammed  the  white  gate  on  the  jaws  of  the  dog.  Hunt- 
ingdon, who  had  watched  the  chase  with  saturnine  enjoy- 
ment, whistled  Caesar  back,  and  then  went  in  and  closed 
the  door. 

Young  Pinion  rubbed  his  cheek  with  his  sleeve,  and 
walked  slowly  down  to  the  Canterbury  Road,  while  his 
grandfather  chained  up  the  dog. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

DELILAH  GUMMER  came  back  to  the  Running  Horse 
soon  after  George  had  left  it.  John,  who  was  afraid 
lest  his  brother  might  meet  Bess  and  attempt  to  molest 
her,  left  'Lilah  in  charge,  and  walked  quickly  towards 
Eddington.  He  met  Bess,  and,  as  they  walked  back  to- 
gether, she  told  him  all  that  had  passed  between  her  father 
and  herself. 

Huntingdon's  revenge  goaded  John — already  angered  by 
his  brother's  visit,  of  which  he  said  nothing,  in  order  to  spare 
Bess  unnecessary  distress — into  a  kind  of  dogged  obstinacy. 
Everything  conspired  against  him;  but  he  determined  now 
to  fight  fate  to  the  bitter  end.  Whatever  happened,  he 
and  Bess  would  keep  together.  Whatever  happened,  even 
if  he  had  to  strip  the  inn  down  to  the  last  chair  and  even 
the  last  tankard,  he  would  keep  it  out  of  Huntingdon's 
hands  until  he  was  absolutely  compelled  to  give  it  up. 

"I'll  go  to  Will  Ford's  again  to-night,"  he  said.  "We'll 
keep  the  inn,  if  we  have  to  sell  everything  out  of  it,  Bess. 
Even  if  it  goes  for  a  song,  we'll  raise  what  we  can  on  the 
furniture.  Poor  old  Blossom  must  go,  too;  she's  old,  but 
she'll  fetch  a  few  pounds.  I'll  talk  to  Will  about  it.  Your 
feyther  shan't  turn  us  out  of  the  old  home  a  minute  sooner 
than  I  can  help." 

He  went  into  the  stable.  The  old  chaise,  too,  battered 
and  worn  with  many  years  of  hard  service,  might  bring 
them  a  few  guineas.  If  only  their  bed  were  left  them,  the 
inn  should  be  kept.  Delilah  would  have  to  go.  He  went 
indoors  to  tell  her.  She  listened,  stolid-faced,  while  he 
told  all  that  was  necessary  of  the  unhappy  story.  "So 
I'm  sorry,  'Lilah,"  he  ended,  "but  we  can't  pay  you  your 
wages  no  longer,  and " 

295 


296  RUNNING   HORSE   IXX 

"Wages?  I  doan't  want  no  wages,  then,"  she  said,  fac- 
ing him,  with  arms  akimbo.  "  Arter  all  these  years,  nursing 
you  when  you  were  a  child  an'  all,  you  can't  send  me  pack- 
ing to  the  wilderness  like  Hagar,  Must'  John!  I  reckon  I'm 
not  a  hireling,  nor  yet  a  rat  to  leave  a  ship  when  it's  sinking, 
the  nasty  things! 

'"Let  others  chuse  the  sons  of  mirth 
To  give  a  relish  to  their  wine.' 

I  reckon  I'm  not  like  'em,  Must'  John.    I'll  stop  here " 

"But  it  isn't  only  wages,  even,  'Lilah,"  said  John,  gloom- 
ily, though  his  heart  was  touched  by  her  loyalty.  "It's 
wittles,  too — I  don't  know " 

"Wittles?  I  doan't  want  them  neither,  then;  I'll  get 
sewing,  or  washing,  or  I'll  go  out  to  help  sometimes— 
they'll  pay  me  enough  to  keep  alive  for  sweeping  out  the 
Blengate  chapel,  Must'  John;  but  here  I  be,  and  here  I'll 
stay,  and  I'll  work  for  you  and  the  missus  till  I've  no  flesh 
on  my  bones,  I  wull,  and  you  can't  turn  me  out  no  more 
than  Huntingdon  can  turn  you  out.  So  there!  If  I  have  to 
tell  Thorn  to  marry  me,  and  keep  myself  out  of  his  wages, 
I'll  do  it.  Arter  all  these  years  with  your  feyther  and 
mother,  and  then  you  and  missus!  No,  I  won't  go.  Oh, 

my!  I  never  reckoned  on  your  saying  such  a  thing " 

Her  freckled,  honest  face  flushed  scarlet,  suddenly,  and 
began  to  work  ominously;  two  great  tears  hung  trembling 
on  the  red  lashes. 

"There,  there,"  said  John,  kindly,  putting  his  hand  on 
her  shoulder,  "doan't  cry,  now,  'Lilah — doan't;  you'll 
make  me  feel  like  it,  too.  We'll — we'll  have  to  talk  it  over 
later." 

"You  won't  never  talk  me  out  of  the  house  that's  given 
me  bed  and  board  for  so  long,  Must'  John,"  sobbed  'Lilah. 
"Not  for  all  the  Huntingdons  in  the  world,  you  won't  do 
that." 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  297 

Bess  was  taking  off  her  things  in  their  bedroom.  She 
turned  over  her  few  treasures  again,  wondering  what  they, 
and  even  the  clothing  she  could  spare,  might  bring  in.  At 
the  bottom  of  a  drawer,  where  it  had  been  put  when  local 
curiosity  had  been  satisfied,  lay  the  Spanish  pistol  which 
George  had  brought  from  the  wars.  That  might  sell  for  a 
few  shillings. 

She  closed  the  drawer,  and  went  downstairs  again.  John 
was  nearly  ready  to  start  for  Sturry.  He  ran  up  to  his 
room,  and  took  out  the  pistol  and  primed  it  ready  for  use. 
He  was  likely  to  be  late,  and  the  gangs  of  smugglers  and 
armed  poachers  who  infested  the  woods  made  night  trav- 
elling dangerous.  He  had  little  enough  left  to  lose,  but  it 
was  not  fair  to  Bess  to  run  risks,  and  these  bands  generally 
left  the  examination  of  pockets  to  the  moment  when  their 
victim  lay  senseless  on  the  highway.  But  his  chief  thought 
was  of  his  brother.  George's  threats  might  mean  anything 
or  nothing;  but  he  was  desperate,  and  it  was  well  to  be  on 
guard  against  foul  play. 

He  said  nothing  to  Bess  about  the  weapon.  She  stood 
in  the  doorway  to  see  him  off. 

"Go  indoors,  lass,  and  get  out  of  the  cold,"  he  said, 
kissing  her  good-night. 

"Won't  you  ride  Blossom  to-night,  John?" 

"  No,  lass;  I'd  as  lief  walk.  Tis  a  good  night  for  walking. 
Will's  a  late  bird,  and  I'll  be  in  plenty  of  time  to  catch  him." 

"What  time  will  you  be  back,  John?" 

"Pretty  late,  I  reckon.  Leave  the  door  unbolted,  and 
don't  sit  up.  I  shan't  be  home  till  after  midnight." 

"Oh,  but  the  road's  so  lonely,  John,  and  the  woods  are 
so  dark.  There  are  such  a  lot  of  starving  men  about,  too." 

"They  won't  hurt  me,"  he  answered,  laughing  to  reas- 
sure her.  "I  wouldn't  go  to-night,  only  we  haven't  any 
time  to  spare.  Now  get  in  by  the  fire,  lass;  why,  you're 
shivering.  Good-night ! " 


298  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"Good-night,  dear,"  she  said.  Her  voice  sounded  very 
clearly  in  the  night  air,  and  thrilled  through  him,  cheering 
his  heart  like  a  cordial  as  he  started  on  his  lonely  walk. 
He  buttoned  up  his  coat,  and  stepped  briskly  out,  with 
lips  set  tightly,  for  this  new  battle  with  fate.  It  was  a 
fight  now  to  the  last  breath.  All  the  latent  stubbornness 
of  his  nature,  inherited  from  his  father,  was  roused  at  last. 
He  remembered  the  proud  motto  which  his  county  flaunts, 
like  a  panache,  among  its  fellows.  Kent  the  Unconquered! 
He,  like  those  distant  ancestors  who  went  with  their  green 
boughs  to  the  Norman  Conqueror  and  made  their  pact  with 
him,  took  pride  in  the  remembrance  that  he  was  a  Man  of 
Kent,  and  was  nerved  by  it.  But  before  he  had  gone  many 
yards  on  his  six-mile  tramp,  his  spirits  fell  again,  and  a 
dull  sense  of  wonder  and  bewilderment  at  his  misfortunes 
took  possession  of  his  mind. 

It  was  a  dark,  gloomy  night;  green-black  clouds  drifted 
quickly  across  the  moon;  the  crests  of  waves,  dazzling 
white  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach  in  the  day's  sunshine, 
now  scarcely  flecked  the  black  expanse  of  waters.  A  cold, 
biting  wind  was  blowing,  laden  with  the  smell  of  weed 
massed  on  the  shingle  and  tossing  on  the  restless  sea.  John 
turned  his  back  on  the  shore,  and  climbed  the  steep  road 
that  was  to  take  him  out  on  to  the  highway. 

Two  or  three  labourers  passed  him  close  to  the  hamlet; 
after  that  he  had  the  dark  road  to  himself.  Very  quiet 
and  silent  lay  the  wintry  fields;  here  and  there  on  the 
horizon  lights  twinkled,  or  latticed  squares,  lit  up,  showed 
in  the  dark  walls  of  cottages  or  farms;  human  sounds  had 
been  left  behind  with  the  clatter  of  the  last  footsteps,  and 
all  the  world  seemed  shut  within  its  doors.  But  the  wind 
moaned  and  chattered  in  the  naked  trees,  and  moved  in 
the  black  clumps  of  gorse  and  bramble  on  the  common 
lands;  and  overhead  there  seemed  an  astounding  hurry  in 
the  heavens — flying  masses  of  filmy  green-black  clouds 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  299 

rushed  past  the  moon,  veiling  and  unveiling  it,  as  if  the 
summons  to-night  had  found  them  unprepared,  and  they 
were  hasting  to  their  places  in  the  soft  volume  of  accumu- 
lated darkness. 

John  Kennett  whistled  to  keep  up  his  spirits.  Kent,  in 
those  late  Regency  years,  was  becoming  almost  as  notori- 
ous for  its  highway  robberies  and  assaults  as  it  had  been  in 
Elizabethan  days,  when  its  very  name  was  synonymous, 
in  English  literature,  for  a  nest  of  thieves.  He  wondered 
what  George  was  doing.  It  was  just  the  kind  of  night 
when,  on  a  lonely  road,  one  fancies  dogging  footsteps,  and 
lurking  figures  in  hedge  or  thicket.  John  was  close  to 
Eddington,  when  there  was  a  rustle  in  the  hedge  ahead 
of  him,  to  his  right,  and  the  figure  of  a  man  broke  away 
— like  a  tiny  dark  section  detaching  itself  from  the  tangle 
of  bush  and  bramble.  John  stopped  abruptly,  and  watched 
while  the  figure  made  its  way  across  the  field.  "Some  one 
up  to  no  good,  I  reckon,"  he  thought,  "or  he  wouldn't  be 
frightened  of  meeting  me.  Unless,  maybe,  he  thinks  I'm 
a  dangerous  character  myself."  It  was  no  business  of  his, 
in  any  case,  and  he  went  on,  though  with  his  eyes  on  the 
running  figure  until  the  darkness  closed  round  it  like  water. 
He  was  turning  his  head  again  to  the  road  in  front  of  him, 
when  a  spark  of  light  glowed  suddenly  below  a  great  rick 
in  the  corner  of  the  field. 

He  stopped  again. 

"Rick-burning — that's  the  business,  then!"  he  muttered, 
and,  as  a  flame  shot  up  suddenly,  sprang  through  the  hedge 
to  stop  the  outrage.  It  was  one  of  Huntingdon's  ricks,  but 
he  acted  on  impulse,  without  stopping  to  consider  whether 
resentment  would  justify  him  in  leaving  the  farmer  to  pro- 
tect his  own  property.  The  fire  shot  up  almost  instantly, 
and  showers  of  sparks  poured  out  in  a  column  of  black  smoke. 

"Out  of  that!"  cried  John,  but  the  man  had  already 
seen  him,  and  was  running. 


300  RUNNING    HORSE   INN 

John  Kennett  rushed  towards  the  rick,  looming  black 
in  the  semi-darkness,  but  becoming  every  moment  more 
clearly  defined  in  the  light  of  its  own  burning.  He  began 
to  pull  out  the  blazing  hay  by  armfuls,  and  kicked  and 
stamped  it  down,  in  a  desperate  effort  to  put  out  the  fire 
before  the  wind  could  make  the  damage  irreparable. 
Shouts  from  the  direction  of  the  farmhouse  reached  his 
ears,  and  he  turned  his  head.  A  man,  thick-set,  was  rush- 
ing across  the  field;  a  dog  ran  alongside  barking;  behind 
them  came  a  lad,  not  far  from  his  master;  and  several 
yards  in  the  rear  hobbled  another  man,  waving  some  im- 
plement. John  could  as  yet  distinguish  no  faces,  but  he 
knew  the  build  of  the  two  men,  and  in  another  moment 
recognised  the  hoarse,  angry  voice  of  Roger  Hunting- 
don. 

"Go  for  him,  Csesar!  Good  dog!  Bring  him  down,  the 
scoundrel.  You'll  swing  for  this!  I  know  who  you  are! 
Pinion!  Pinion!  Hurry  your  legs,  you  fool,  all  the  rick'll 
go!" 

"I  be  coming,  Maister,  dreckly-minute.  Oh,  my  side! 
Oh!  just  arter  my  supper  too!  All  right,  Maister,"  he 
wheezed,  "I  be  a-coming!" 

John  bent  almost  double,  and  rushed  to  the  dark  side 
of  the  rick.  If  he  were  caught,  there  would  be  little  use  in 
explanation.  The  thought  flashed  instantly  across  his 
mind.  Rick-burning  was  a  hanging  matter.  No  doubt 
some  tramp  was  the  culprit,  but  there  was  motive  enough 
to  convict  John  Kennett  a  dozen  times  over,  if  he  were 
recognised,  and  taxed  with  the  crime  which  he  had  been 
trying  to  prevent.  He  heard  the  snuffling  breathing  of 
the  dog,  as,  ceasing  to  bark,  it  shot  ahead  of  its  master  to 
carry  out  his  order.  John  took  out  the  Spanish  pistol. 
Unless  he  could  escape  before  the  dog  sprang  at  him,  he 
must  kill  the  brute  in  self-defence.  Huntingdon  was  still 
far  enough  away  to  give  him  a  chance  of  escaping  in  the 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  301 

darkness.  He  looked  behind  him;  there  were  open  fields, 
and  beyond  them  a  shaw,  where,  if  once  he  reached  it,  he 
would  be  safe. 

He  had  nearly  covered  the  length  of  the  rick,  when  the 
retriever  reached  the  bend,  and  slid  a  yard  or  two,  in  a 
desperate  effort  to  double  on  its  quarry.  There  was  no 
choice  but  to  shoot.  John  dropped  on  one  knee,  cocked 
the  pistol,  and  took  aim. 

The  dog  spun  round,  its  lips  drawn  back,  wolf-like,  over 
the  white  gleam  of  teeth,  its  eyes  glowing  like  balls  of 
green  fire,  phosphorescent  in  the  darkness.  John  pressed 
the  trigger  as  it  leapt  forward;  there  was  a  flash,  and  a 
report  that  echoed  sullenly  among  the  trees  and  hills. 

At  the  moment  when  he  pressed  the  trigger,  Huntingdon, 
shouting  threats  and  curses,  came  round  the  bend.  A 
cry,  sharp  and  sudden,  answered  the  flash  and  the  report. 
"Pinion!  I'm  shot!"  he  jerked  out,  more  in  rage  and 
amazement  than  in  pain.  John  saw  him  stagger  for  a 
second,  twist  sharply,  half  round,  as  if  some  great  hand 
had  taken  him  and  were  wrenching  him  aside  against  his 
will.  "Pinion!  You,  boy!  Hold  him!  Never  mind  me! 
Catch  him,  I  say!" 

The  wind,  veering  a  little,  shot  a  lambent  flame  from 
that  side  of  the  rick,  as  if  throwing  a  torch  to  light  the  last 
act  of  the  tragedy.  The  retriever,  startled  by  the  report, 
and  half-blinded,  drew  back  snarling,  and  then  turned 
piteous  eyes  towards  its  master,  and  licked  his  hand. 
Huntingdon  staggered  blindly  against  the  rick,  and  stood 
there,  propped  against  it,  with  one  hand  clapped  tightly 
against  his  breast.  John,  appalled  at  the  horror  of  the 
catastrophe,  ran  towards  him  instinctively,  to  give  him 
help.  "Oh,  my  God!"  he  gasped.  "Mr.  Huntingdon,  I 
didn't  mean  it,  I " 

"Pinion,  it's  John  Kennett!"  cried  Huntingdon,  in  a 
voice  extraordinarily  loud  and  firm.  "You'll  hang  for 


302  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

this,  my  fine  fellow!  Curse  you,  Pinion,  why  don't  you 
come!  I'll— I'll— 

His  voice  changed  suddenly,  sharply.  "What's  that?" 
he  gasped,  and  his  legs  seemed  to  give  under  him;  he  sank 
down  gradually  in  a  limp  heap,  and  sat  there  against  the 
hay,  his  head  nodding  horribly. 

At  the  report  of  the  pistol,  the  boy  had  waited  for  his 
grandfather,  whose  rheumatism  added  to  it  now  timidity 
as  an  excuse  for  delay.  "I  be  coming,  Maister,  I  be  com- 
ing," quavered  Pinion,  still  behind  the  friendly  shelter  of 
the  rick.  "You  won't  shoot  us,  wull  'ee,  Must'  Kennett? 
I  be  on'y  a  poor,  harmless  old  man " 

The  dog  slunk  away  with  its  tail  between  its  legs,  as  if 
to  ask  Pinion  what  had  happened  to  its  master.  John 
could  hear  the  old  peasant  urging  his  grandson  to  look 
round  the  edge  of  the  rick. 

"No,  you  look,  grandfer;  you'm  older  an'  wiser'n  me." 

"I  can't  see  nothing  with  dese  here  old  eyes,"  said  Pin- 
ion, and  evidently  his  teeth  were  chattering.  "Here  be 
help  at  last,  though!  Shout,  'Zekiel,  shout!  Help,  help!" 

Huntingdon's  neighbour,  young  Akenside,  and  some 
labourers  were  hurrying  across  the  field.  John  bent  over 
the  fallen  man;  already  the  eyes  were  glazed,  the  fierce, 
masterful  spirit  quelled  by  mastery  stronger  than  its  own. 
He  was  past  help. 

John  stood  up.  Should  he  stay  and  take  the  chance  of 
his  story  being  believed?  If  he  meant  to  escape,  there 
was  not  a  moment  to  lose.  He  began  to  run.  A  narrow 
plank  spanned  the  ditch  between  field  and  shaw;  he  crossed 
it,  dropping  the  pistol  as  he  ran.  Safe  in  the  shelter  of 
the  thicket,  he  stopped  for  a  second  to  draw  breath.  The 
fire  had  caught  the  heart  of  the  rick  at  last;  he  could  see 
the  sky  red  above  the  trees,  and  sheaves  of  sparks  floating 
towards  the  clouds  that  moved  so  fast  across  the  moon. 
He  was  half-dazed;  everything  had  passed  so  quickly.  It 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  303 

seemed  an  age  since  he  had  been  whistling  on  the  high- 
road; yet  only  a  few  minutes  could  have  passed. 

His  one  thought,  the  one  prompting  of  instinct,  was  to 
get  away — to  get  away  where  he  could  think  quietly  of 
all  this.  He  ran  on,  breaking  through  the  bushes,  duck- 
ing his  head  as  if  a  bullet  might  come  whizzing  after  him 
at  any  moment,  groping  blindly  among  the  trees,  slipping 
and  stumbling  over  roots  and  crackling  twigs  and  branches. 

"Oh,  Bess,  Bess!"  he  moaned,  as  he  ran.  Huntingdon's 
hate  seemed  as  if  it  could  pursue  him  and  his  wife  even  in 
death.  He  ran  over  a  ploughed  field,  crossed  a  stile,  and 
at  last  reached  the  darkness  of  the  Blean  woods.  Then  he 
stopped,  panting,  and  tried  to  think.  What  should  he  do? 
Huntingdon  had  shouted  his  name;  Pinion  had  answered 
his  master,  and,  almost  in  the  same  breath,  had  appealed 
to  John,  by  name,  not  to  fire.  At  present  he  was  safe. 
Nothing  stirred  but  the  wind  among  the  branches.  Fear 
of  pursuit  drove  out  all  fear  of  the  bands  of  lawless  men 
who  made  the  Kentish  woods  their  lair.  The  cover  of  trees 
and  undergrowth,  the  darkness  of  night,  might  give  him  a 
few  hours'  freedom.  He  could  not  go  back  to  the  inn; 
Bess  would  believe  his  story,  Captain  Rockett  would,  he 
knew;  but  others,  even  his  friends,  would  put  their  own 
construction  on  the  doings  of  the  night,  when  they  heard 
of  the  foreclosure.  Perhaps,  even  now,  men  were  search- 
ing for  him  at  the  Running  Horse.  What  should  he  do? 
He  prayed  to  God  for  counsel  and  help,  but  in  this  terrible 
hour  his  creed,  so  much  a  matter  of  long  habit — based  on 
that  rather  than  on  faced  and  thought-out  facts — seemed 
to  fail  him.  For  some  time  past,  the  apparent  cruelty 
and  blindness  of  fate  had  blurred  his  vision  of  that  just  and 
beneficent  Deity  he  had  worshipped  since  boyhood,  as  the 
Preserver  of  men,  their  Defence  and  Shield,  the  Rewarder 
of  those  who  sought  and  honoured  Him.  "All  things 
come  alike  to  all;  there  is  one  event  to  the  righteous,  and  to 


304  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

the  wicked;  to  the  good,  and  to  the  clean,  and  to  the  unclean. 
.  .  .  This  is  an  evil  among  all  things  that  are  done  under 
the  sun,  that  there  is  one  event  unto  all."  The  bitter  cry, 
so  ancient  and  so  new,  had  been  choked  down  often;  but 
now  it  welled  up  from  his  heart  to  the  high  heavens.  Still 
he  prayed,  but  his  hands  were  like  those  of  a  drowning 
man,  clutching  the  air  for  support,  and  finding — nothing. 

An  owl  hooted  in  the  woods;  the  discordant  screech, 
not  very  many  yards  away,  sent  his  heart  to  his  mouth, 
and  his  skin  crept.  Ever  since  he  had  bent  over  Hunting- 
don, the  vision  of  the  dead  man's  face,  with  his  fixed  and 
staring  eyes,  had  been  in  John's  mind,  stamped  there 
with  all  its  weird  background — the  rick,  flame,  and  dense 
shadow;  the  shuddering  trees;  the  green-black  clouds  fly- 
ing through  the  troubled  sky.  That  picture  would  always 
be  with  him  now,  like  the  gruesome  carving  of  the  gallows 
on  the  wall  of  a  prison-cell,  which  generation  after  genera- 
tion of  criminals  sees  and  trembles  at,  yet  cannot  shut  out. 
His  nerves,  steady  enough  generally,  were  all  on  edge. 
But  the  sudden  shock  of  the  eerie  hooting  brought  its  own 
revulsion  in  a  flood  of  shame.  He  rallied  his  thoughts  with 
an  effort.  God's  help  or  not — God  or  blind  fate — he  was 
still  a  man,  and  could  play  that  part.  He  must  make  his 
decision  without  whining,  and  act  on  that  decision. 

Should  he  give  himself  up,  and  tell  the  truth?  Death, 
in  that  event,  seemed  certain.  John  remembered  suddenly 
that  Huntingdon's  death  would  mean  the  cancelling  of 
the  order  to  foreclose,  and  an  end,  certainly,  to  all  Bess's 
anxiety  about  money.  Her  mother  would  never  let  her 
want.  But  that  would  strengthen  the  case  against  him. 
Not  only  revenge,  as  he  at  first  thought,  but  this  double 
motive  of  freedom  from  embarrassment  would  be  imputed 
to  him  by  the  judges. 

If  only  Huntingdon  had  not  called  out  his  name!  Could 
he  brazen  that  out,  deny  it,  put  it  down  to  malice  even  in 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  305 

death?  But  to  do  that  he  must  prove  an  alibi — and  how? 
No,  he  must  go  away — hide  somewhere  in  London,  and  find 
some  means  of  letting  Bess  know  his  whereabouts.  He 
was  afraid  to  go  to  the  inn.  Country  wits  moved  slowly; 
it  might  be  some  time  before  they  attempted  to  arrest  him; 
but  the  risk  of  capture  was  too  great.  He  decided  at  last 
to  carry  out  his  original  intention  and  go  to  Sturry.  Ford 
could  be  trusted  with  the  real  facts,  and  with  a  message. 

He  hurried  through  the  woods,  as  if  speed  could  put  the 
clocks  back,  and  so  prove  his  innocence.  It  was  too  late 
now;  he  reproached  himself  bitterly  for  not  running  there 
at  once.  But  when  he  knocked  at  his  cousins'  door,  a 
neighbour  told  him  that  they  had  gone  to  Canterbury  to 
spend  the  evening  with  friends. 

John  entered  an  inn,  where  he  was  known,  and  called 
for  spirits.  He  had  a  kind  of  dazed  notion  that  it  might 
be  useful,  at  some  time  or  other,  to  prove  that  he  had 
actually  been  to  Sturry  on  this  night.  But  all  his  thoughts, 
all  his  plans,  were  hazy  and  confused.  Huntingdon,  inflex- 
ible in  all  his  schemes,  had  seemed  to  use  his  very  death  to 
make  his  curse  effective. 

When  John  entered,  a  gamekeeper  was  telling  the  land- 
lord that  he  had  seen  red  on  the  sky-line  beyond  Herne 
from  the  highroad.  "Another  rick  burned,  I  reckon,"  he 
said.  "That's  the  fourth  this  month,  in  these  parts." 

"Did  you  see  anything  of  it,  Kennett?"  asked  his  host. 

"I  saw  the  flames  in  the  sky,"  said  John,  and  felt  miser- 
ably guilty  at  the  quarter-truth,  for  the  cowardice  of  lying 
had  classed  it,  since  his  earliest  boyhood,  among  the 
unpardonable  sins. 

He  stayed  at  the  inn  until  closing  time.  There  was  not 
much  risk,  though  his  heart  quickened  every  time  the 
door  opened.  But  he  wanted  to  put  off  that  lonely  flight  to 
the  great  city  as  long  as  possible.  He  hoped,  too,  that  by 
and  by  the  Fords  would  come  back,  though  he  scarcely 
20 


306  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

knew  yet  whether  he  should  tell  them.  One  by  one  the 
men  trooped  out  of  the  warm  taproom  into  the  cold  night 
air.  He  lingered  a  few  minutes,  saying  good-night  to  the 
landlord,  and  then,  when  the  street  was  empty,  went  again 
to  the  Fords'  door.  They  had  not  returned. 

He  determined  to  walk  on  in  the  direction  of  Canter- 
bury; it  was  his  road  to  the  wider  world,  and  he  might 
meet  them.  He  was  a  mile  on  his  way,  when  he  heard  a 
clatter  of  hoofs  and  a  creak  of  wheels  behind  him,  and 
turned  his  head. 

Two  soldiers  rode  beside  a  rough  country  cart,  in  which 
were  three  men,  whose  figures  he  could  just  make  out. 
The  horse  was  being  driven  rapidly  towards  Canterbury. 

John  drew  aside  to  let  them  pass. 

"Keep  still,  wull  'ee?"  said  a  gruff  voice  from  the  cart 
to  one  of  its  occupants.  "You  won't  do  no  good  by  try- 
ing to  get  away.  Reckon  us'd  better  take  his  boots  off, 
if  'a  tries  kicking " 

"Leave  my  arm  alone,  curse  you!  I'll  kick  till  you  take 
your  houghed  fingers  off  my  sleeve.  Curse  the  lot  of  you! 
I'll — I'll  have  the  law  on  you  for  this.  I'm  evidence,  I 
am.  I  saw  it  done,  I  tell  you.  Let  me  go " 

As  the  cart  clattered  into  distance,  the  thick,  drunken 
yoice,  almost  incoherent  with  impotent  rage,  still  reached 
John's  ears — cursing,  threatening,  entreating. 

It  was  George's  voice! 

Then  it  must  have  been  his  brother  who  had  fired  the 
rick.  John  saw  all — or  nearly  all — in  a  flash  of  intuition. 
George  had  been  caught,  perhaps  lurking  near  the  place, 
and  was  now  a  prisoner.  Huntingdon's  exclamation  could 
easily  be  explained — had  been,  no  doubt,  already,  to  the 
satisfaction  of  those  who  had  effected  the  arrest. 

John  turned  his  back  on  Canterbury,  and  hurried 
through  Sturry  towards  the  sea.  He  would  be  safe,  to- 
night at  any  rate,  at  the  Running  Horse.  George  had 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  307 

prepared  a  halter  for  his  brother's  neck;  his  own  was 
caught  in  it,  and  should  remain  there. 

Oh,  there  was  God's  justice  still  in  this  world  of  His! 
John  looked  up  to  the  sky,  with  a  cry  of  praise  and  thank- 
fulness rising  from  his  heart. 

But  the  huddle  of  sombre  clouds,  still  moving,  blotted 
out  the  moon,  and  seemed  to  close  the  gates  of  prayer. 
His  praise  could  not  pass  that  barrier,  opaque,  impervious, 
guarded  not  by  the  flaming  sword  that  turned  every  way 
to  keep  the  way  of  the  tree  of  life,  but  by  the  gloomy 
legions  of  the  dark.  It  shut  in  even  God. 


CHAPTER   XXII 

AFTER  his  repulse  at  the  farm,  George  Kennett  wan- 
dered aimlessly  towards  Herne.  He  was  in  a  fury  of 
blind  and  helpless  rage.  Hunger  and  thirst,  the  rags  that 
scarcely  screened  him  from  the  cold — all  this  ultimate 
misery  he  had  been  brought  to — made  him  unfit  to  battle 
with  the  world.  He  marvelled  at  himself  that  he,  who  had 
faced  shot  and  shell  so  often,  and  flung  himself  undismayed 
against  French  steel,  should  have  been  sent  packing  by  an 
angry  threat  and  the  loosing  of  a  farmyard  dog.  If  he  had 
only  stayed  to  hurl  stones  at  the  brute,  menaced  it  with  his 
boot  as  it  charged  towards  him,  done  anything  rather  than 
run,  with  snarled  oaths  for  his  only  protest.  Huntingdon's 
short,  jeering  laugh  rang  in  his  ears.  The  thought  of  the 
sorry  figure  he  had  cut  inflamed  his  rage  to  madness. 

He  sauntered  in  the  old  village,  nursing  schemes  of  re- 
venge, and  at  last,  when  night  closed  down  on  the  land, 
turned  back  towards  Eddington.  Huntingdon  should  pay 
for  this  in  flaming  rick  or  barn.  Yet  he  knew  the  penalty  if 
he  were  caught,  and  hesitated.  Once  he  thought  he  heard 
stealthy  footsteps  dogging  him,  and  looked  round,  but 
there  was  no  one  in  sight. 

He  hid  in  the  hedge,  meaning  to  wait  until  the  lights  of 
the  farmhouse  went  out,  and  Huntingdon  and  his  men  were 
all  safe  abed.  Perhaps  he  would  sleep  in  the  hay,  and  fire 
it  in  the  still  hours  just  before  dawn.  He  would  have  time 
to  get  away,  then,  before  the  sleepy-eyed  labourers  came 
to  their  work. 

But  he  had  not  waited  very  long  when  he  heard  his 
brother's  whistle,  and  saw  him  coming  down  the  road. 

Not  until  then  did  the  thought  of  a  double  vengeance 
enter  his  mind.  Destiny,  if  it  had  marked  him  out  for  a 

308 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  309 

sordid  part,  still  favoured  him.  George's  brain  was  dazed 
with  misery  and  privation,  but  he  reflected  vaguely  that, 
if  the  rick  blazed  out  now,  the  penalty  might  attach  itself 
to  John.  Certainly,  he  would  be  suspected,  if  Huntingdon, 
rushing  out  to  save  his  hay,  encountered  the  man  with 
whom  he  had  so  bitter  a  feud,  and  whose  ruin  he  had  just 
effected.  George  acted  by  impulse  rather  than  by  delib- 
erate choice.  After  all,  he  gave  John  the  benefit  of  the 
chance.  He  would  have  hesitated  to  attack  him;  but  the 
possibility  of  this  indirect  vengeance  appealed  to  him  too 
strongly  to  be  resisted. 

George  ran  across  the  field,  fired  the  rick,  and  crossed 
the  plank  into  the  shaw,  where,  hidden  by  the  undergrowth, 
he  waited  and  watched  events. 

He  saw  John  hurry  across  the  field  to  undo  the  mischief. 
He  heard  the  shouts  from  the  house,  the  barking  of  the 
dog,  Huntingdon's  savage  orders  to  Pinion  and  the  boy. 
Pinion's  wheezy  rejoinders  reached  his  ears,  as  the  rheu- 
matic old  retainer  hobbled,  grunting  and  coughing,  at  a 
long  interval  behind  his  master.  And  then  George  saw  the 
flash,  heard  the  sharp  report — and  realised  suddenly  what 
had  happened. 

Shuddering  at  the  tragedy,  startled  by  its  unexpected- 
ness, George  was  on  the  point  of  running,  when  John 
Kennett  broke  through  the  bushes,  flinging  the  pistol  in 
the  ditch  as  he  sprang  across  it.  There  was  no  immediate 
risk  of  discovery.  George  had  heard  Huntingdon  shout 
the  name  of  his  slayer.  Now,  even  if  George  were  found, 
that  fact  would  protect  him.  He  lay  still,  peering  through 
the  screen  of  naked  twigs  and  branches  at  the  scene  which 
the  flaming  rick  lit  up.  Pinion  would  never  venture  alone 
into  the  shaw.  As  Akenside  and  the  rest  drew  near,  the 
old  man  hobbled  towards  them,  piping  out  explanations 
in  his  weak  old  voice.  The  body,  deserted  for  the  moment, 
lay  huddled  at  the  foot  of  the  rick.  Grim  and  tragic 


310  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

death-scene  for  the  last  bearer  of  an  ancient  name!  For 
centuries  the  feet  of  his  ancestors — strong  men,  all  of 
them,  fearless  and  indomitable  in  following  their  aims, 
whether  of  good  or  ill — for  hundreds  of  years  their  feet 
had  trodden  this  ancestral  soil.  And  now  the  sombre 
clouds  and  the  night's  darkness  seemed  his  pall — the  blaze 
of  his  own  wealth  the  torch  which  lit  his  bier,  the  wintry 
earth. 

Pinion  shuffled  back  to  the  body,  and  bent  over  it  tim- 
orously, quavering,  "Maister!  Maister!  Why  doan't  'ee 
speak?  What  be  us  to  do,  Maister?"  At  first  he  scarcely 
seemed  to  realise  the  tragedy.  The  strong  man,  so  full  of 
hot  anger,  had  grown  so  suddenly  impotent  and  silent. 
Pinion  ran  back  again  to  the  others,  as  if  afraid  of  the  near 
presence  of  death.  Akenside  and  the  men  assembled  in  a 
little  dark  group  beside  the  body.  "He's  gone, "said some 
one.  After  slow  consultation,  they  dragged  the  corpse 
away  from  the  rick,  for  the  flames  were  spreading.  In 
face  of  this  grimmer  catastrophe,  no  movement  was  made 
to  save  the  hay.  George  could  not  hear  their  muttered 
consultations.  Now  and  then  a  man  would  go  to  the  corpse, 
and  draw  aside,  with  timid  fingers,  the  coat  that  now  cov- 
ered the  great  mystery.  They  had  come  to  the  blank  wall 
in  every  man's  experience,  and  stood  helpless,  hushed, 
puzzled.  It  seemed  as  if  looking  at  the  face  of  the  dead 
would  give  them  some  clue  to  death's  secret.  It  seemed 
almost  as  if  they  expected  him  soon  to  stir  again,  who 
would  never  stir,  or  to  speak,  who  would  be  ever  silent. 
But  at  last  a  man  broke  away,  running  to  the  road,  then 
another.  No  doubt  they  were  going  at  last  to  fetch  con- 
stable and  surgeon.  The  others,  headed  by  Akenside, 
turned  towards  the  shaw,  but  cautiously,  fearing  a  sudden 
bullet  from  its  coverts. 

George  broke  the  spell  which  held  him,  and  crept  away 
noiselessly.  He  crossed  the  belt  of  wood,  and  a  stretch 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  311 

of  rough  common  where,  in  the  daytime,  sheep  pastured, 
and  made  his  way  to  the  sea.  He  reached  the  cliffs  between 
Hampton  and  Herne  Bay.  He  had  laid  his  plans.  Under 
his  tattered  coat  was  the  pistol  which  John  had  flung  down 
as  he  escaped.  Huntingdon's  cry,  the  actual  fact  that  John 
had  fired  the  shot — above  all,  this  weapon,  which  every 
one  in  Herne  Bay  would  recognise — all  these  made  his  own 
position  absolutely  secure.  There  was  evidence  enough  to 
hang  a  dozen  men.  But  he  did  not  want  his  brother's  life. 
He  wanted 

Well,  drink,  first — drink,  drink — something  to  stop  that 
craving,  to  warm  his  heart,  to  renew  his  sapped  courage — 
and  food,  and  clothes  that  would  enable  him  to  play  a 
bolder  and  more  equal  part  in  this  world  which  judged  so 
much  from  appearances.  But  he  promised  himself  more 
than  these,  much  more.  This  knowledge,  this  evidence, 
should  give  him  all — or  nearly  all — he  had  schemed  for 
hitherto  without  success. 

He  went  down  the  slope  of  the  cliff,  and  peered  in  at 
the  bar-room  window  of  the  Running  Horse,  to  see  if  the 
last  customers  had  gone.  Bess  was  sitting  there  alone. 
Delilah,  no  doubt,  was  in  the  inner  room.  The  clock  hands 
were  drawing  near  the  hour  for  closing.  At  this  time  of 
night  there  was  no  likelihood  of  other  customers  coming 
to  the  inn. 

George  stood  for  a  little  while,  peering  through  the 
window  at  the  girl.  She  had  a  paper  on  her  knee,  but  was 
not  reading;  her  eyes,  shining  in  the  candlelight,  were 
dreamy,  and  had  an  unwonted  look  of  sadness.  No  doubt 
she  was  thinking,  as  she  looked  into  vacancy,  of  that  last 
interview  with  the  man  who  was  now  lying  with  his  face 
covered  from  that  world  in  which  his  share  was  ended, 
the  man  to  whose  soul  God  had  spoken. 

George  Kennett's  hungry  eyes  drank  in  her  beauty.  A 
hundred  memories  stirred  in  him,  as  he  saw  the  dark, 


312  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

abundant  hair,  the  still  girlish  figure,  the  dimpled  throat  just 
showing,  the  neat  instep  latticed  by  the  shoe-strings.  He 
felt  even  a  momentary  compunction.  He  shrank  a  little 
from  that  moment  when  her  eyes  would  be  turned  towards 
him.  Should  he  face  them?  He  almost  yielded  to  a  sudden 
impulse  to  go  away,  to  leave  the  two  whom  he  had  already 
harmed  so  much  unmolested,  and,  while  they  faced  their 
own  trouble,  follow  his  own  lonely  and  unhappy  road. 
But  Bess's  flushed  face,  the  cheerful  fire,  the  tankards 
and  bottles  glittering  in  the  light,  all  held  him.  After  all, 
it  was  her  father  who  had  been  killed.  Hard  as  Hunting- 
don had  been,  could  she  condone  that?  Wouldn't  her 
childhood,  and  all  that  had  been  pleasant  in  it — every 
little  kindness  rendered  and  now  magnified  by  death — 
wouldn't  these  rise  between  her  and  her  husband,  an  im- 
penetrable barrier?  Even  if  she  had  loved  John  as  dearly 
as  she  said,  this  would  surely  be  a  crime  unforgivable. 
And  George  meant  to  be  generous.  He  was  going  to  offer 
her  her  husband's  life,  for  a  price,  of  course;  certainly,  for 
a  price. 

The  stinging  cold,  kept  at  bay  a  little  when  he  was 
walking,  but  now  very  poignant  in  face  of  the  open  sea, 
reminded  him  of  his  rags  and  emptiness.  He  moved 
towards  the  door.  The  clock  struck  the  hour  at  that 
moment,  and  Bess  stood  up,  flung  her  hands  to  her  hair 
with  the  old,  familiar  gesture,  and  came  towards  the  door 
to  bolt  it.  George  raised  the  latch,  and  stood  there  facing 
her. 

"We're  just  going  to  close,"  she  said,  not  recognising 
him,  but  starting  back  at  the  sight  of  the  unkempt,  haggard 
figure  on  the  threshold. 

"You  can  close,  Bess,  if  you  shut  me  inside  instead  of 
out,"  he  said,  with  a  little,  nervous  laugh,  and  shot  the  bolt. 
"Don't  know  me,  eh?  Well,  I  reckon  I'm  altered.  I'm 
George — back  again." 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  313 

"George! "    She  gave  a  little,  startled  cry. 

"Ay,  it's  me.  Well,  haven't  you  a  word  of  welcome? 
Hullo,  'Lilah,  you've  not  got  rid  of " 

"You?  What  are  you  doing  here  again?"  Delilah,  who 
had  come  from  the  inner  room  at  the  cry,  interrupted 
harshly.  She  went  to  her  mistress's  side.  Her  master 
was  away  again — and  these  two  women  left  alone  to  face 
the  man  whose  very  name  they  had  been  trying  to  forget. 
"We  don't  want  nothing  more  to  do  with  you.  You  can 
go  back  where  you  corned  from,  to  your  own  wicked 
ways  and  friends." 

"What,  when  I've  come  for  the  fatted  calf?  You  don't 
hold  with  your  religion  about  welcoming  the  prodigal, 
seemin'ly,  'Lilah.  There,  I'm  not  going  to  do  any  one 
any  harm.  I've  come  for  your  good,  I  have,  to  bring  bad 
news,  but" — he  produced  the  pistol  slowly  from  his  coat 
— "but  on  an  errand  of  mercy,  so  to  speak.  That  ought  to 
please  you,  'Lilah.  Don't  stare  at  me  like  that,  Bess,  my 
girl.  I'll  not  hurt  you." 

"No,  that  you  won't,"  said  Delilah,  going  to  the  door. 
"Out  you  go.  You  won't?"  But  she  changed  her  mind. 
It  would  never  do  to  leave  Bess  alone  in  the  house  with 
him.  "Missus,"  she  said,  "you  go  out  and  fetch  the  neigh- 
bours— Homersham  or  some  one — better  bring  two  or  three. 
I'll  stay  here  with  him.  The  worstest  he'll  do  is  to  shoot 
me,  and  I  doan't  care.  I've  never  been  frightened  by  man 
yet,  and  it'd  take  more'n  him  to  do  it.  Run,  missus, 
run!" 

"Run?  Why,  I'll  open  the  door  for  you,  if  you  like, 
Bess.  Oh,  I  shan't  hinder  you.  Bring  in  all  Herne  Bay,  if 
you  like."  He  flung  himself  down  in  a  chair  before  the 
fire,  and  stretched  out  his  feet  (one  toe  was  showing  through 
the  worn  boot)  towards  the  cheerful  blaze.  "I'll  just  tell 
you  this,  though,  first;  John  may  have  to  thank  you  for 
his  death  if  you  do." 


314  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"John?  What  do  you  mean?"  Bess  hesitated,  and 
turned  back.  George  watched  her  with  provoking  eyes, 
hinting  mystery.  It  was  evident  that  he  meant  to  let 
them  summon  help  if  they  chose  to  take  that  course.  What 
was  the  secret  of  that  quiet,  meaning  smile  on  the  haggard, 
unshaven  face  that  confronted  hers — the  smile  in  the  quiz- 
zing eyes?  Her  glance  fell  on  the  pistol  that  he  dandled 
meaningly.  She  recognised  it  at  once,  and  her  heart 
stopped.  John  must  have  taken  it!  What  had  happened? 
Had  he  met  with  some  accident — some  violence  from  his 
brother,  perhaps? 

"George,  tell  me — what  is  it?  Has  anything  happened 
to  John?  Oh,  how  cruel  to  look  like  that!  Don't  keep 
me  in  suspense — don't,  George.  Let  me  know " 

"  Well,"  he  said,  slowly,  "something  has — and  yet  hasn't. 
'Tis  a  difficult  question  to  answer  in  that  way,  lass.  But 
something  will  if  you  or  'Lilah  leave  that  door.  At  least, 
'Lilah  can  go  if  she  wants;  she's  nothing  to  me.  Mind,  I 
shan't  stop  neither  of  you." 

"Oh,  George,  it's  cruel — you  don't  know  how  cruel " 

"What,  when  I'm  doing  a  good  action,  Bess?  Come, 
I'll  tell  you,  then.  Let  me  have  a  drink  first.  'Lilah,  pour 
me  out  a  glass  of  Hollands — a  full  glass,  mind.  I've  not  had 
a  drop  pass  my  lips  for  God  knows  how  long.  And  then — 

Delilah  stood  obstinate,  with  her  lips  pursed  up,  her 
whole  attitude  defiant. 

"Give  it  him,  Delilah,  if  it'll  only  make  him  speak!" 

"Well,  I'll  do  it  for  you,  mum.  Not  for  him,  I  won't; 
I  wouldn't  lift  a  merciful  finger  to  help  him.  I'll  pour  the 
spirits  out,  but  they'm  for  you,  missus,  not  for  him."  She 
half-filled  a  glass,  and,  evading  George's  hand,  put  it  into 
the  outstretched  hand  of  Bess.  George  snatched  it,  with 
a  laugh,  and  tossed  it  off. 

He  smacked  his  lips.  "Ah,  it's  terr'ble  good,"  he  mut- 
tered, with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction.  "  Here,  another,  'Lilah." 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  315 

He  handed  the  glass  back.  Already  his  eyes  brightened, 
his  voice  was  stronger.  That  was  what  he  wanted,  before 
playing  the  trump  which  was  to  win  the  drawn-out  game. 
But  Delilah's  hands  remained  clenched,  her  arms  by  her 
side.  "Damn  you,"  he  shouted,  turning  round,  "I'll  have 
to  get  another  servant."  He  poured  out  a  second  glass 
and  tossed  it  off. 

"  'Lilah,"  he  ordered,  looking  round  from  the  bar,  "go 
and  get  something  to  eat  ready  in  the  parlour;  I'm  half 
famished.  Do  you  hear?" 

There  was  something  ominous  and  significant  in  his  easy 
assumption  of  command. 

"Missus,"  broke  out  'Lilah,  looking  at  him  fiercely, 
"don't  harken  to  that  nonsense  about  maister;  'tis  all 
lies  to  deceive  us.  Go  and  get  the  neighbours,  and  I'll 
stay  here  with  him." 

George  filled  his  glass  again,  and  brought  it  to  the  fire- 
side and  sat  down. 

"Do  what  you're  told,  'Lilah,"  he  said.  "It'll  be  the 
worse  for  you  if  you  don't.  I'm  master  here  now.  If  you 
want  to  stop  here " 

"I  wouldn't  stop  not  an  hour — not  a  minute — if  you 
were,"  retorted  the  woman,  her  green  eyes  glaring.  "I'll 
get  you  no  supper,  and  that's  flat.  Not  if  you  went  down 
on  your  bended  knees,  I  wouldn't;  'twould  be  like  serving 
Satan  himself,  and  that  I've  never  done,  nor  won't.  If 
he's  anything  to  say,  let  him  say  it,  and  then  go." 

"Go?"  George  put  his  glass  down,  with  great  deliber- 
ation, on  the  corner  of  the  hearth,  and  chuckled.  "Go? 
Oh,  I'm  not  going  from  the  Running  Horse  again,  'Lilah. 
You  are,  though.  I  give  you  notice,"  he  cried,  his  voice 
changing  to  anger,  "I  give  you  notice  to-night.  Damn 
you!  You  won't  get  me  supper?  We'll  see "  He  half- 
rose  from  his  chair,  but  a  word  from  Bess  checked  him,  and 
he  sank  back.  "There,  there,  I'll  tell  you,  lass.  It's  bad 


31G  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

news — in  a  way — but  I'll  help  you  to  forget  it."  He  rubbed 
his  hands. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Bess,  bending  forward  towards 
him.  "Oh,  tell  me,  George." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to,  lass,  ain't  I?  You  must  give  a 
man  time  to  think.  Here,  come  and  sit  aside  me.  That's  it." 

"Now  tell  me."  She  forgot  her  fear,  almost  her  repul- 
sion, in  her  anxiety  for  her  husband,  and  set  a  chair  close 
to  him  before  the  fire. 

"That's  it,"  he  said;  "now  we're  cosy.  In  our  own 
home  at  last.  That's  it;  put  your  hand  on  my  sleeve  again 
— I  like  it."  He  looked  at  the  tattered  cloth,  and  blinked. 
"Must  dress  better'n  this  to  please  you,  though,  Bess. 
Damme,  I'll  go  up  and  get  John's  clothes  on."  He  half- 
rose  again,  but  sank  back  with  a  contented  sigh.  "That'll 
do  later  on.  We're  comfortable  now,  and  jolly,  eh?" 
Suddenly  he  broke  into  a  soldier's  song: 

"Why,  soldiers,  why, 
Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys? 

Why,  soldiers,  why? 
Whose  business  'tis  to  die. 

Not  going  to  die,  though. 

"What,  sighing?  Fie! 
Drink  on,  kill  care,  be  jovial,  boys. 

There,  don't  start  away  like  that,  Bess.  Here,  come  back." 
It  was  his  own  hand  he  addressed,  that  had  wandered 
behind  the  girl's  chair  to  circle  her  waist;  he  dragged  it 
back  with  the  other,  and  looked  round,  laughing  foolishly. 
"  'Lilah,  pour  me  out  some  more  Hollands,  there's  a  good 
girl.  Me  go  away?  That's  foolish,  that  is. 

"  "Tis  he,  you,  or  I, 

Cold,  hot,  wet,  or  dry, 
We're  always  found  to  follow,  boys, 
And  scorn  to  fly. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  317 

Why,  where  are  you  flying  to,  Bess?  Come  back,  lass,  and 
sit  aside  me." 

Bess  stood  up,  her  face  pale,  her  eyes  sparkling,  her  lips 
pursed  together.  "Oh,  'Lilah,  what  shall  I  do? "  she  moaned, 
at  last. 

"I'd  not  believe  a  word  of  his  nonsense.  Call  the  neigh- 
bours," said  Delilah. 

Bess  went  to  the  door. 

"Here,  come  back — come  back,  you  little  fool!"  cried 
George.  "There,  I  didn't  mean  to  speak  harsh  to  you;  I 
love  you  too  well,  I  do.  Never  say  an  unkind  word  to 
you,  I  wouldn't.  I'll  tell  you.  You  almost  drive  out  of  my 
head  what  I  come  about.  Oh,  I  know.  Houghed  serious 
thing,  Bess;  I  don't  half  like  telling  you;  but  cheer  up — 

"  Tis  he,  you,  or  I, 
Cold,  hot — 

Cold,  by  now,  I  reckon,"  he  muttered,  in  a  drunken  aside. 
"What  is  it?  Why,  your  father's  dead — and  John  killed 
him — that's  what  it  is.  Shot  him  with  this  pistol " 

Bess  gave  a  little  startled  cry,  and  Delilah,  lowering  at 
George,  ran  to  catch  her,  thinking  she  would  fall. 

"I'm  all  right,  Delilah,"  she  gasped;  "I  shan't  faint." 
But  for  a  moment  she  clutched  her  bosom,  and  seemed 
struggling  for  breath. 

"  You  brute,  you,  oh,  you  brute! "  hissed  Delilah,  between 
her  teeth.  "What  a  starf  be  you  got  at,  trying  to  kill  her, 
when  she's  never  done  you  harm  but  good?  It's  not  true. 
Doan't  'ee  believe  his  wicked  romancin',  missus.  If  Must' 
Huntingdon's  killed,  it  wusn't  Must'  John  who  killed  him." 

"It's  true  as  gospel,  'Lilah,  and  truer,  very  likely.  He's 
dead  enough.  I  saw  him  shot,  and  John  running  away. 
But  I  won't  say  a  word.  I  won't  tell.  And  they  shan't 
have  the  pistol.  Only  he  can't  come  back,  of  course.  I'm 
master  now.  Will  you  get  me  that  supper?" 


318  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"You'll  not  believe  him,  mum?  You'll  not  believe  that 
of  your  husband?" 

Bess  was  struggling  with  fearful  suspicions.  If  George 
were  really  the  culprit,  would  he  have  run  his  head  into 
danger  by  coming  to  the  inn?  She  knew  the  enmity  be- 
tween her  father  and  her  husband.  She  knew  that  John 
must  have  taken  the  weapon  with  him  when  he  went  out; 
and  he  had  taken  it  without  letting  her  know.  Why,  she 
had  spoken  about  the  insecurity  of  the  roads,  and  he  had 
not  told  her  that  he  was  armed.  How  had  George  obtained 
the  pistol,  unless  his  story  were  true?  He  went  on  with 
his  rambling  explanation,  scarcely  heeding — so  soon  had 
the  drink  affected  him — whether  they  listened  or  gave  no 
heed.  But  she  detected  the  ring  of  truth  in  his  words,  and 
her  heart  misgave  her.  Bess's  eyes  were  on  the  weapon, 
and  Delilah  knew  at  once  what  she  was  thinking. 

"Lor,  that's  nothing!"  she  said.  "As  likely  as  not  he 
stole  it  first.  That's  no  proof."  Delilah  did  not  know — 
as  Bess  knew — that  John  had  taken  the  pistol  when  he 
left  the  inn.  "I  reckon  he  took  it  with  him  that  night  he 
went  to  London." 

"I  won't  tell,  Bess,"  rambled  George,  lazily,  "and  we'll 
send  him  some  money  if  we  find  out  where  he  is.  Can't 
do  fairer  than  that!  You'll  have  plenty  now.  We'll  have 
to  pitch  some  yarn  about  his  going  away,  and  you  and 
I'll  be  as  happy  as  turtle-doves  now,  we  will.  I  always 
loved  you,  and  you  did  me,  I  know.  Who  are  you  glaring 
at,  'Lilah?  You'll  go,  my  woman,  if  I  have  any  more  from 
you.  I'm  master  here,  I  tell  you.  I  always  did  have  my 
way  when  I  wanted  it;  but  John  was  a  silly  fool  to  shoot 
him.  Not  a  nice  death,  hanging  isn't.  Perhaps  he  lost  his 
temper — poor  old  John!  " 

He  got  up  and  walked,  lurching,  round  the  room,  blink- 
ing at  the  cartoons  and  ballad-sheets,  and  here  and  there 
setting  one  awry  as  if  in  an  effort  to  straighten  it. 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  319 

Delilah  went  hastily  into  the  parlour,  and  he  followed  her. 
"Dear  old  Bess,"  he  said,  leering  at  the  girl  as  he  passed, 
"there — don't  be  frightened — I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for 
worlds,  I'll  only — hie — love  you."  She  evaded  his  arms, 
and  he  went  chuckling  into  the  parlour.  "You  ain't  got 
the  supper,  then,  'Lilah,"  he  said,  reproachfully,  and  groped 
in  a  cupboard  for  food.  Some  plates  fell  with  a  clatter. 
In  a  minute  or  two  he  came  back,  munching  a  pasty  he 
had  found. 

Delilah  had  returned  to  the  taproom.  "If  you  won't  go 
for  the  neighbours,  missus,  I'll  see  he  don't  harm  you," 
she  said,  and  produced  a  knife  which  she  had  just  secured. 

"How  can  I  go?  How  can  I,  when  I  don't  know  what 
may  have  happened?"  Bess  said,  in  a  strained  whisper. 
"Oh,  I  don't  know  what  to  do!  What  will  become  of 
us?" 

George  lurched  back  to  the  bar,  and  flung  down  the 
pasty  testily.  "  I'm  not  hungry,  though.  Thirsty  enough," 
— he  poured  out  more  spirit — "but  not  hungry.  Funny, 
that."  He  seemed  to  reflect  a  minute  as  he  stood  swaying 
with  the  glass  in  his  hand.  "Thirsty — and  sleepy."  He 
sank  down  into  the  chair  again.  "Come  on,  Bess,  come 
and  be  cosy  together." 

But  he  did  not  look  round  at  her,  and  began  singing 
again,  in  a  drowsy  voice  punctuated  with  hiccups. 

"  Tis  but  in  vain 

For  soldiers  to  complain, 
Send  us  to  Him  who  made  us,  boys, 

And  if  we  remain, 
A  bottle  and  kind  landlady  cures  all  again. 

Oh,  I'm  sleepy.  Letsh  have  more  wood  on  the  fire."  His 
words,  as  drink  took  possession  of  his  brain,  grew  indis- 
tinct, and  slurred  together.  He  yawned,  and,  heaving  a 
log  on  the  fire,  took  up  the  poker  and  made  lunges  at  a 
venture  which  stabbed  erratically  at  wood  and  coal.  The 


320  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

poker  slipped  from  his  fingers,  and  clattered  down;  quite 
suddenly  his  head  sank,  his  eyes  closed,  and  he  began  to 
snore,  falling  directly  into  drunken  slumber. 

The  clock  ticked;  the  fire  creaked  and  rustled;  for  a 
few  moments,  save  for  his  snoring,  there  was  no  other 
sound  in  the  room.  Outside  the  wind  swept  the  shore; 
the  sea  thundered  and  fell  back  moaning  from  the  deserted 
beach. 

"Aren't  you  going  for  help  now,  missus?"  asked  Deli- 
lah, at  last,  in  a  hoarse  whisper.  "I'll  stay  here.  We 
can't  have  him  in  the  house  alone;  he'll  set  it  afire  or 
something  if  we  leave  him.  Must'  John  won't  be  home 
yet-a- while.  And  when  he  wakes " 

"I  don't  know  what  to  do,  'Lilah.  Oh,  I'm  sure  some- 
thing terrible  has  happened!  And  if  it's  true — if  he  saw— 

"Well,  if  I  was  married,  I  shouldn't  believe  such  a  tale. 
If  any  one's  done  murder,  it's  him,  and  not  maister,  I'll 
be  bound.  I'd  go  off  at  once " 

Bess  clutched  her  arm.  "  What's  that?  Oh,  what's  that  ?" 

The  two  women  stood  listening. 

"There  are  people  coming — listen!" 

They  heard  the  tramp  of  feet,  the  slow  clatter  of  hoofs 
like  dropping  water. 

"Oh,  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"Do?  Why,  let  them  in,  of  course — call  out  to  them,  I 
should,  if  they're  going  by  the  door.  Listen,  missus.  .  .  . 
They'm  stopping  here." 

There  were  voices  outside,  muffled;  then  a  man  stepped 
forward  and  knocked. 

"In  the  King's  name!" 

He  waited,  and  knocked  again,  louder.  George  stirred 
uneasily. 

"I'll  open  the  door,"  whispered  Delilah,  and  went 
towards  it. 

"  No,  no.    Oh,  let  me  think.    He'll  say " 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  321 

"Let  him  say.  We'll  have  to  open  it.  Oh,  my!  They'll 
have  the  door  down,  missus." 

"Open  the  door!  Open,  in  the  King's  name!"  A  fat, 
pompous  voice,  but  a  little  frightened  withal. 

"They  don't  seem  to  hear,"  said  some  one  without. 
"Didn't  you  ought  to  say  in  the  Regent's?" 

"I  reckon  I  know  my  business,"  replied  the  more  pom- 
pous voice,  in  the  space  that  was  given  for  an  answer. 

"They're  abed." 

"What,  with  lights  in  the  window?" 

The  knocking  grew  louder  and  more  urgent.  Bang, 
bang,  bang!  The  hammering  would  awake  all  the  quiet 
hamlet. 

George  opened  his  eyes  slowly,  and  looked  round. 
"Where  am  I?  My  wig,  I  thoft  I  was  in  the  open  air. 
Who  the  hell's  making  that  row?  Hullo,  Bess,  my  girl. 
Whatsh  the  matter  ? "  He  rose,  steadying  himself  against 
the  little  table,  and,  leering  at  Bess,  made  a  sudden  at- 
tempt, foolishly  playful,  to  catch  her  to  him.  Delilah 
interposed  her  sturdy  body.  "  Now  then,"  she  said,  sharply, 
"get  back  to  your  chair.  Open  the  door  to  them,  Mrs. 
Kennett.  Do  you  think  they'd  listen  to  the  nonsense  a 
drunken  man  babbles  to  'em?" 

Bess  went  slowly  to  the  door,  and  drew  the  bolt.  She 
opened  it.  Two  horses  stood  before  the  inn,  and  a  little 
knot  of  men. 

"Look  out!  Mind  he  don't  shoot!"  cried  the  man  who 
had  summoned  them  to  open,  springing  back. 

"What  is  it?"  gasped  Bess. 


21 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

REASSURED  by  the  sight  of  the  pale,  frightened  girl, 
the  man  who  had  spoken  pulled  himself  together — 
donning  majesty  like  a  garment — and  stepped  across  the 
threshold.  A  little,  pursy  man,  very  consequential,  nor- 
mally, no  doubt,  high-coloured,  but  his  cheeks  were  mottled 
and  veined  with  red  on  a  yellowish  ground,  now,  and  his 
lips  pale  and  twitching. 

"There  he  is!"  he  cried,  suddenly.  "Seize  him,  my  lads 
— I  arrest  you  in  the  King's  name!  Now  clap  these  on  him 
while  I  read  the  warrant.  That's  him." 

Two  soldiers,  who  had  entered  with  him,  stepped  for- 
ward. Through  the  open  door  curious  eyes  peered  into  the 
well-lit  room.  "Shut  the  door — we  don't  want  every  one 
in,"  said  the  little  man.  Delilah  closed  it  abruptly  in  the 
faces  of  the  onlookers,  and  shot  the  bolt.  The  horses' 
hoofs  grated  on  the  shingle  as  some  one  who  held  the  reins 
dragged  them  along  to  the  bow  window,  and  pressed  his 
nose  against  the  glass,  trying  to  peer  in. 

"What  are  you  doing?  Here,  whatsh  this?"  The  man- 
acles were  on  his  wrists  before  George  could  clear  his  dulled 
brain  for  thought;  the  click  of  locked  steel  answered  him. 

"Now  read  out  your  paper,"  said  one  of  the  soldiers. 
The  consequential  little  man  glanced  round,  fumbling  ner- 
vously in  his  pocket,  and  then  addressed  himself  to  Bess. 
"Sorry  to  trouble  you,  mum,  'specially  if  he's  your  hus- 
band." He  hesitated  before  the  last  word,  and  glanced 
dubiously  at  the  tattered,  unshaven,  blear-eyed  wretch 
before  him.  Delilah  opened  her  mouth,  but  shut  it,  on 
second  thoughts,  and  kept  it  tightly  closed. 

"Dooty's  dooty,  though.  I  be  the  borsholder  of  Blen- 
gate  Hundred,  and  arrest  him  in  the  King's  name  for 

322 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  323 

murder.  I'll  read  the  warrant  to  'ee."  He  put  on  his 
spectacles,  adjusting  them  slowly  to  his  nose,  and  began  to 
read  in  a  sing-song.  The  warrant  fluttered  in  his  fingers. 
George,  suddenly  flaming  out,  tried  to  rush  at  him. 

"Hold  him!  Don't  let  him  go!"  cried  the  borsholder, 
jumping  back,  forgetful  of  all  his  assumed  dignity,  his 
voice  changed  from  the  droning  see-saw  of  legality  to  a 
shrill  quaver  of  fright.  The  two  soldiers  pinned  George 
back  against  the  table,  and  the  reading  went  on,  a  little 
more  hurriedly  than  before,  many  of  the  words  gabbled 
and  mispronounced  and  stumbled  over;  the  reader's  eyes 
wandered  suspiciously  from  the  sheet  to  the  prisoner.  But 
when  he  ended,  George  threw  back  his  head  and  gave  a 
great  guffaw  of  laughter. 

"A  fine  joke,  that!"  he  roared.  "Here,  stand  away, 
can't  you?  John  Kennett!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  My  wig,  I'll 
have  the  laugh  of  them  all  for  this!"  He  peered  round, 
still  laughing;  the  laugh  broke  off  suddenly.  "I  won't 
tell,  though,  Bess.  On  conditions — conditions,  of  course. 
But  John  Kennett!  Thatsh  too — hie — good." 

The  borsholder  stood  looking  at  him,  a  picture  of  ag- 
grieved dignity.  He  had  been  elected  by  the  Hundred  for 
the  year,  and  his  range  of  office  covered  too  large  an  area, 
and  even  too  many  inns  (though  he  did  his  best  to  make 
his  knowledge  of  these  extensive),  for  him  to  know  either 
of  the  Kennetts.  He  pointed  his  crowned  staff,  like  a 
child's  toy,  at  the  prisoner.  "Bring  him  along,  my  lads. 
Oh,  I'm  forgettin'.  Search  him  first — search  him  first." 

"I  suppose  we're  all  right  in  doing  it?  Law  can't  touch 
us  for  it,  eh?"  asked  one  of  the  soldiers,  dubiously. 

"Certainly,  you're  right,  my  man.  You'm  all  bound  to 
assist  me." 

"Don't  know  much  about  being  bound,"  said  the  other 
soldier.  "  'Tain't  no  part  of  our  duty,  I  reckon.  We  be- 
long to  the  Tyler  Hill  picket,  and  only  come  along  of  you 


324  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

for  what  you  promised  us.  We've  collared  the  man  for 
you,  but  I  reckon  searching  him's  beyond  what  we  bar- 
gained for.  That's  your  job.  Nice  thing  if  a  mistake's 
been  made  and  we're  had  up  by  the  law  for  pickin' 
pockets." 

"Oh,  absurd,  absurd!  I  inwest  you  with  full  powers. 
Come,  turn  his  pockets  out." 

"Ay,"  said  George,  nodding  his  head  and  blinking. 
"Turn  'em  out.  I'll  let  you  do  it.  Oh,  I  won't  re — reshist. 
What  a — hie — joke;  eh,  Bess?  My  wig,  I'll  have  the 
laugh  of  'em  for  this!  John  Kennett!  Ha,  ha!" 

"Look  here,  constable,  I  reckon  you'd  better  do  the 
searching,"  said  the  first  soldier.  "We'll  hold  him  for 
you;  eh,  Bill?" 

Seeing  no  help  for  it,  the  borsholder  advanced  gingerly 
and  felt  in  the  pockets,  bringing  out  tinder-box,  flint,  a 
few  soiled  and  crumpled  papers,  and,  last  of  all,  the  remains 
of  the  bread  and  cheese  that  John  had  given  him,  still 
wrapped  in  the  torn  news-sheet.  George,  with  his  wrists 
fastened  and  arms  held,  chuckled  disconcertingly,  and 
mixed  with  his  mirth  an  inventory  of  the  constable's  fea- 
tures, viewed  at  such  close  quarters — his  mottled  cheeks, 
the  small,  bubukled  nose,  the  rabbit  eyes  peering  through 
the  glasses  with  an  affectation  of  official  sternness.  The 
little  man  jumped  back  briskly  when  he  had  finished. 
"Tinder-box — wery  important  ewidence,"  he  muttered. 
"Bread  and  cheese" — these  puzzled  him.  "And  what's 
this  here  paper? "  He  inspected  it  closely  under  the  candles. 

"Finished,  eh?"  asked  George.  "Well,  now,  I've  a  good 
mind  to  come  along  with  you  to  gaol,  but  I  won't,  'cause 
I'm  going  to  stay  here  to-night.  I've  had  enough  of  cold 
quarters  and  short  commons.  It's  all  right,  Bess — you 
know."  He  winked  mysteriously  at  Bess,  who  stood 
watching  everything  with  startled  eyes,  and  still  clutched 
Delilah's  arm.  "Now,  I'm  going  to  tell  you  something. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  325 

That  says  John  Kennett,  that  warrant.  And  my  name 
ain't  John.  Shan't  tell  you  what  it  is.  And  I  don't  say 
you're  on  the  right  tack  with  John.  But  it's  not  for  me." 

The  borsholder  glanced  up,  startled,  from  the  news- 
sheet  which  he  had  been  examining.  "What "  He 

stopped,  and  went  to  the  door.  "Come  in  here,  my  man. 
Give  the  horses  to  the  boy.  I  want  your  ewidence." 

"I  be  quite  safe,  I  hope,  now?  'A  bain't  going  to  shoot? 
I  be  a  married  man,  I  be;  twice  over  married,  an' " 

"You'm  safe  enough.  We'll  protect  you.  That's  the 
man  you  saw,  isn't  it?  Wait  a  little  minute,  though;  that 
ain't  quite  legal;  'tis  a  leading  question,  as  we  call  it." 
He  pursed  up  his  lips,  considering,  and  framing  words. 
"Now,"  he  said,  wagging  his  finger  at  old  Pinion,  "is  he 
the  man  you  saw  or  not?  Consider  afore  you  speak,  be- 
cause your  words  may  be  ewidence  against  you,  but  don't 
hesitate.  Speak  the  truth,  now,  so  help  you  and  may  you 
die  for  it." 

"I  doan't  ezackly  know  how  to  speak  it,  maister,  seein' 
as  I  didn't  see  un." 

"Is  that  John  Kennett?" 

Pinion  wagged  his  head  solemnly.  "No,  that  bain't 
Must'  John.  'A  be  Jarge  Kennett,  'a  be.  I  didn't  see 
neither  of  them,  though,  not  close  to.  Wery  likely  it 
might  be  John  shot  Must'  Huntingdon,  or  contrariwise  wery 
likely  it  might  be  Jarge.  I  didn't  see  neither  of  'em." 

"But,"  stammered  the  borsholder,  his  face  resuming  its 
normal  purple  hue,  "you  told  me  and  the  magistrate 
'twas  'John  Kennett'  the  murderee  shouted  out." 

"Whatsay?"  Pinion  curved  a  knotted  hand  round  his 
ear  to  gain  time  for  consideration.  The  law  wanted  shrewd 
handling;  his  crafty  old  wits  suggested,  too,  that  his  evi- 
dence might  be  worth  money. 

"Oh,  ay,"  he  said,  when  the  question  was  repeated,  "I 
thoft  he  said  John,  but  contrariwise  he  might  have  said 


326  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Jarge.  My  grandson  'Zekiel,  now,  he  beared  him,  too;  but 
he  says  'twas  Jarge  he  shouted.  He  says  he  see  un,  too, 
running  acrost  the  field.  I  be  hard  of  hearing,  and  wery 
likely  'twas — no,  no,"  he  stammered,  as  he  caught  a  threat- 
ening glance  from  the  prisoner,  "it  must  ha'  been " 

"Is  he  the  boy  with  the  hosses?     Call  him  in,  then." 

Young  Ezekiel  Pinion  slouched  in,  very  sheepish,  and  a 
little  sullen. 

"That's  him!"  he  said,  when  he  was  examined.  "Grand- 
fer  told  me  not  to  say  nothing  yet,  but  I  wull;  he  done  it. 
Must'  Huntingdon  set  the  dog  on  him,  an'  he  hit  me,  an' 
I  followed  un  to  Herne.  I  see  him  come  back  again,  and 
by  and  by  he  crossed  the  field,  and  I  runned  and  telled 
Must'  Huntingdon  about  the  rick." 

"You  damned  young  liar!"  shouted  George.  "I  was  in 
the  shaw  all  along " 

The  boy  shrank  back,  and  pushed  against  the  small 
table,  uptilting  it  as  George  tried  to  get  at  him.  The 
borsholder  stooped  down  suddenly  and  picked  up  the 
Spanish  pistol. 

"The  pistol!"  he  cried.    "That's  ewidence!" 

"Ay,  that's  ewidence,"  said  Delilah,  grimly.  "Must' 
John,  indeed!  What  for  should  he  want  to  kill  any  one — 
a  God-fearing  man  like  him?" 

"God-fearing  ain't  ewidence,  though,"  said  the  bors- 
holder, pompously.  "  But  his  clothes  look  ewidence;  there's 
leaves  on  his  boots,  and  hay  sticking  to  him.  And  the 
tinder-box  is  ewidence.  And  perhaps  these  here  papers  is 
ewidence.  Where's  John  Kennett?" 

"Over  at  Sturry,  he  was,  hours  agone,"  said  Delilah, 
promptly.  "You'll  find  him  here  if  you  want  him  later, 
any  day." 

"Well,  bring  the  prisoner  along,  men." 

"  He  is  the  right  one,  I  suppose,  Bill  ? "  said  the  first  soldier. 

"Looks  like  it." 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  327 

"Oh,  you  can  take  your  authority  from  me,  my  men. 
I  give  you  full  powers  of  meum  and  tuum  over  the  afore- 
said prisoner." 

But  as  they  began  to  drag  George  towards  the  door,  he 
rattled  out  a  volley  of  barrack-room  oaths. 

"Curse  you,  what  do  you  think  you're  doing?"  he 
shouted.  "It  was  John,  I  tell  you.  He  done  it.  I  saw  it 
with  my  own  eyes.  Can't  help  it,  Bess;  itsh  me  or  him, 
now.  I  was  in  the — hie — shaw,  going  to  sleep  the  night 
there.  That's  his  pistol,  not  mine;  I  picked  it  up  in  the 
ditch  after  he'd  fired.  He  had  it.  Delilah,  didn't  you  see 
him  start  with  it?  Bess,  didn't  you?  Who  saw  him  start? " 

"You  took  the  pistol  when  you  runned  off  to  Lunnon, 
you  know  you  did,  you  wicked  man,"  said  Delilah,  basing 
her  statement  on  the  suggestion  she  had  already  made, 
and  on  her  own  conviction. 

"Bess,  you  must  ha'  seen  him  start!  Didn't  he  have 
the  pistol  then?  Come,  lass.  You  know  I  didn't  take  it 
away;  anyhow,  you  know  'twas  in  the  house.  Bess!" 

Bess  stood  with  her  hand  to  her  breast.  "O  God,  help 
me!"  she  cried,  silently;  but  it  was  a  cry  for  her  husband's 
salvation  rather  than  for  guidance,  and  she  knew  it.  She 
did  not  answer — she  could  not  answer.  The  men  looked 
at  her.  "  'Tis  a  shame,"  muttered  one  of  the  soldiers; 
"poor  lass!  She  don't  want  to  get  him  hung."  No  one 
doubted  what  the  answer  must  be,  unless,  perhaps,  the 
dazed  and  fuddle-witted  Pinion  and  George  himself. 

"Come,  mum,"  said  the  borsholder,  "  'tis  a  painful 
question,  but  must  be  answered.  I  authorises  an  answer." 
He  wagged  the  crowned  staff  of  office,  an  almost  ludicrous 
affront  to  the  tragedy  of  the  moment  on  which  so  much 
depended. 

"Did  George — John,  I  mean — John  Kennett  take  the 
pistol  with  him  this  evening  when  he  started  off  for  Sturry? 
Take  your  time,  and  answer  deliberate-like." 


328  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"No,"  gasped  Bess.  "No,"  she  repeated,  with  a  des- 
perate firmness,  her  eyes  on  George  as  if  fascinated;  "he 
didn't  take  it.  It  wasn't  in  the  house." 

Delilah  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"You'll  swear  to  that,  now,  if  need  be?" 

"Yes.     Oh,  yes." 

At  a  word  from  the  borsholder,  Pinion  flung  open  the 
door  and  tottered  out,  giving  the  men  a  wide  berth.  The 
soldiers  dragged  out  their  prisoner;  he  clutched  at  the 
furniture,  kicked,  struggled,  and,  between  his  oaths,  ap- 
pealed madly  to  Bess  for  help — in  vain.  She  watched  with 
fixed,  wide  eyes,  her  hand  still  pressed  to  her  bosom, 
wanting  to  ask  them  to  let  him  go,  to  treat  him  mercifully, 
but  powerless  to  speak.  Rage  rather  than  fear  possessed 
George — rage  at  being  turned  away  from  the  fireside,  and 
the  drink,  and  the  girl  who,  he  thought,  had  been  his  at 
last.  The  shock  of  the  arrest  had  sobered  him  a  little,  but 
even  now  he  scarcely  realised  the  seriousness  of  his  posi- 
tion. He  knew  that  he  was  being  dragged  from  the  fire- 
side into  cold  and  want  again.  But  of  course  he  could 
soon  clear  himself — there  was  no  question  of  that. 

The  village,  as  he  was  hurried  through  it,  seemed  asleep; 
but  here  and  there  eyes  peered  from  upper  windows  as  the 
little  company  passed  towards  the  Canterbury  Road.  Pin- 
ion hobbled  on  ahead;  they  waited  for  a  few  minutes  by 
the  roadside,  and  soon  a  horse  and  cart  from  Eddington 
drove  down  to  meet  the  prisoner.  He  was  hustled  in;  the 
two  soldiers  from  the  Tyler  Hill  picket  rode  alongside  as 
escort.  The  rick  had  almost  burned  itself  out,  but  the 
embers  still  glowed  in  the  night.  There  were  lights  in  the 
windows  of  the  farm. 

They  clattered  round  the  corner  at  Herne  village,  pass- 
ing the  quiet  churchyard  where  his  father  and  mother 
lay.  Nothing  stirred  but  the  dead  leaves  of  last  autumn, 
tossed  by  the  night  wind.  The  hearts  that  would  have 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  329 

ached  for  him  ached  no  more  for  ever  in  this  world;  grief 
touched  them  no  more,  nor  sympathy,  nor  any  need  calling 
so  loudly  for  their  help.  Many  a  night  his  mother's  ears  had 
been  strained  for  the  faintest  sound  of  childish  fright,  or 
loneliness,  or  pain;  many  a  night,  when  the  wind  moaned 
and  rattled  at  the  windows,  and  the  stormy  seas  thundered 
on  the  beach,  she  had  lain  awake,  worrying  about  her  son  at 
the  far-off  wars.  .  .  .  She  slept  soundly  enough  now. 

Canterbury  was  reached  at  last,  and  George,  still  thick- 
witted  with  drink,  but  still  impotently  furious,  was  thrust 
into  a  gloomy  office  under  the  West  Gate.  His  angry 
protests  were  disregarded.  He  was  taken  by  his  gaolers 
through  a  little,  stone-flagged  day-room  used  by  the  few 
prisoners.  A  pump  with  a  stone  sink  beneath  it  stood  in 
one  corner;  the  water  trickled  from  the  spout,  dismally 
and  slowly.  A  fireplace  was  filled  with  grey  ash  and  black- 
ened cinders.  Five  sleeping  cells  opened  on  to  the  common 
room.  George  was  flung  into  one,  a  bare  and  tiny  prison, 
with  a  rush  mat  on  the  floor,  and  two  blankets  and  a  rug 
to  shelter  him  from  the  bitter  cold.  Here,  and  not  to  the 
lavender-scented  room  at  the  Running  Horse,  the  inci- 
dents of  the  night  had  led  him.  The  door  was  locked  and 
George  left  to  himself. 

He  slept  by  and  by,  but  uneasily,  and  his  past  ran 
through  his  dreams.  Through  all  was  a  hideous  sense  of 
defeat,  of  pursuit;  again  and  again  he  woke  in  a  cold  sweat 
of  horror.  He  saw  the  faces  he  had  seen  that  night  in 
Badajoz — the  old  man's  face,  the  pale  face  of  the  young 
Spaniard,  the  girl's  face;  but  now  they  threatened  him, 
and  he  started  broad  awake  with  their  cry  for  vengeance 
in  his  ears.  He  was  a  young  recruit  again;  fame  and  for- 
tune seemed  before  him;  he  was  leading  his  comrades  on 
to  victory,  and  their  shouts  and  cheers 

"  Passed,  like  a  glorious  roll  of  drums, 
Through  the  triumph  of  his  dream." 


330  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

But  in  a  flash  their  faces  changed;  he  saw  the  fierce, 
menacing,  hairy  faces  of  the  French  closing  round  him, 
and  the  tumult  in  his  praise  became  suddenly  a  hoarse 
shouting  of  "  Vive  I'Empereur!  En  avant!  A  la  bayonnette!  " 
And  the  pas  de  charge  rattled,  and  shakoes  tossed  on  the 
sword-points,  and  the  red  wings  on  the  shoulders  of  the 
infantry  rose  and  fell  as  they  drew  nearer — ever  nearer — 
penning  him  between  walls  of  advancing  steel.  .  .  . 

He  woke  from  one  nightmare,  in  the  grey  winter  dawn, 
to  intense  misery  and  dejection.  This  was  the  end  of  his 
scheming,  his  lust,  his  unbridled  ambitions.  "Drip,  drip, 
drip,"  sounded  the  water  on  the  stone;  he  heard  through 
the  thin  partition  the  clank  of  double  irons,  as  his  neigh- 
bour turned  in  his  sleep.  George  remembered  watching 
this  old  gate  on  that  sunny  day  when  he  had  come  to  Can- 
terbury with  his  father  so  many  years  before,  and  recalled 
his  stories  of  the  old  days  when  prisoners  were  caged  below 
for  passers-by  to  see,  and  jeer  at,  or  pity. 

What  was  the  meaning  of  it  all — this  world,  this  life? 
Its  mystery  caught  him  by  the  throat.  Meaningless? 
Not  that.  He  knew  there  was  some  meaning,  some  design, 
hidden  from  him,  not  even  a  glimpse  vouchsafed.  The 
inanimate  objects  in  the  cell — the  tin  platter,  the  earthen- 
ware jug,  his  very  shackles — looked  challenging,  secret, 
significant.  They  meant  something.  Things  were  not  only 
what  they  looked  and  seemed.  If  he  could  only  take 
these  and  tear  their  meaning  from  them  with  his  hands,  as 
one  tears  the  shell  from  the  kernel,  the  rind  from  the  fruit; 
breaking  through  the  external,  breaking  into  the  real 
heart  and  inner  significance — finding  out  something  of 
God's  plan! 

And  with  this  sense  of  mystery  came  the  sense  of  the 
folly — not  so  much  the  wickedness,  but  the  utter  folly — 
of  sin.  Life  was  too  great  and  awful  a  gift  to  be  used  as 
he  had  used  it.  Why  was  it  given?  He  did  not  know. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  331 

He  had  fought,  schemed,  striven,  for  wealth,  for  fame,  for 
power;  but  these  were  not  the  answer.  Not  these — not  these. 

Perhaps  because  his  brain  began  to  shake  off  the  poison 
of  the  spirit — perhaps  because  rays  of  friendly  morning 
light  began  to  stream  through  the  grated  window  of  his 
cell — George,  sleeping  again,  dreamt  quieter  dreams.  Like 
one  who,  lost  in  a  dark  wood,  wanders  in  a  circle  to  his 
starting  place,  he  found  his  way  back  to  childhood.  He 
was  in  Herne  Church,  on  a  drowsy  Sunday  morning,  and 
his  hot,  moist,  sleepy  little  head  nodded  down  against  his 
mother's  arm.  He  was  in  his  blue  smock,  scampering  about 
the  downs  with  John  and  Bess.  He  was  in  bed  with  John, 
in  the  attic  of  the  Running  Horse,  very  sleepy;  but  it  was 
time  to  get  up,  and  there  was  a  knocking  at  his  door,  and 
his  mother's  voice 

"Time  to  get  up,  boys!    Out  of  bed,  now,  lazybones!" 

He  started  out  of  dreams;  but  the  attic,  with  its  cosy 
bed,  its  texts,  the  window  framing  the  blue  sea,  the  win- 
dow-seat littered  with  boyish  treasures,  had  all  vanished. 

A  gaoler  opened  his  door,  and  threw  in  his  breakfast, 
like  a  bone  to  a  starving  dog.  It  was  quite  early.  Country 
carts  rumbled  into  the  city  through  the  gateway.  Men 
went  out,  talking  and  whistling,  to  their  work.  He  heard 
far-off  country  noises:  the  distant  bark  of  a  dog,  the  crow- 
ing of  a  cock,  dreamy  and  far  away.  Nearer  at  hand,  birds 
were  singing  in  the  trees,  as  if  they  were  telling  secrets  to 
the  new-born  day.  It  was  a  crisp,  sunny  winter  morning. 

And  the  world  had  shut  him  out  from  it!  Shut  out  from 
him  the  free  sunshine,  the  glorious  air,  the  hard,  ringing 
roads,  the  talk  and  laughter  and  evening  fireside!  His 
hands  were  helpless;  but  his  heart  turned  against  every 
man.  Munching  his  dry  bread,  he  thought  bitterly  of  his 
brother,  and  cursed  him;  but  there  was  fierce  hatred  in 
every  fibre  of  his  being  for  all  who  shared  the  splendour 
of  the  day  and  denied  him  his  part  in  it. 


332  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

As  the  old  Northmen  cried  to  their  chief,  "Haro!  Haro! 
0  mon  Prince!  On  m'a  fait  tort! "  so  he  railed  to  Destiny— 
or  to  God — against  his  fellows.  "O  my  Prince!  They 
have  done  me  wrong!" 

But  when  the  question  came,  "  Whof"  deep  in  his  heart 
a  voice  could  only  answer,  "I!  I  myself!  I  only!" 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

DIRECTLY  the  party  had  left  the  inn,  Bess  broke  down. 
Delilah  herself  was  near  the  point  of  tears,  but, 
after  looking  helplessly  at  her  mistress  for  a  few  minutes, 
she  made  some  clumsy  attempts  at  consolation.  George 
had  fulfilled  the  worst  of  her  predictions,  but  in  face  of 
the  tragedy,  now  that  he  had  gone,  Delilah  was  shamed 
into  silence  about  his  misdeeds.  Perhaps  in  her  heart  she 
had  even  some  pity,  remembering  the  little  boy  who — 
though  he  had  so  often  defied  her — had  still  been  the  ob- 
ject of  her  rough  solicitude  in  years  gone  by.  He  no  longer 
flourished  like  the  bay-tree;  he  no  longer  threatened  harm 
to  John  and  Bess;  and  Delilah  could  afford  to  leave  him 
to  the  dealings  of  God,  and  even  temper  these  dealings 
with  her  prayers. 

But  she  fully  believed  in  George's  guilt;  and  here,  un- 
known to  her,  but  known  well  enough  to  her  mistress,  was 
a  barrier  set  up  between  the  two  women.  Bess  could  say 
nothing  of  her  anxiety  about  John.  It  was  pitiful  to  have 
to  act — as  she  had  done — in  the  dark,  and  a  bitter  thought 
that  her  answer  to  the  borsholder's  question  might  send 
George  to  his  death.  She  did  not  repent.  The  lie  seemed 
necessary  to  screen  her  husband;  she  had  been  obliged  to 
act  promptly.  But  she  knew  now  that,  even  had  she  been 
given  time — and  had  still  been  compelled  to  act  in  igno- 
rance of  the  night's  real  happenings — she  would  have  de- 
cided in  the  same  way.  John  must  have  taken  the  pistol 
with  him.  Perhaps  there  was  some  explanation;  but  her 
heart  misgave  her  when  she  remembered  George's  confi- 
dence, and  Pinion's  first  assertion  that  her  father  had 
called  out  John's  name.  Delilah,  staunch  friend  and  con- 
soler as  she  was,  was  in  the  dark  about  the  real  inner 

333 


334  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

tragedy  of  the  position,  and  must  remain  in  the  dark. 
John  was  not  likely  to  return  for  some  time  yet.  Bess  both 
feared  his  coming  and  was  impatient  for  it.  Suspense 
was  terrible;  perhaps,  after  all,  he  could  put  her  fears  to 
rest  in  a  few  words.  It  would  be  misery  enough  then  to 
know  that  George,  her  old  playmate,  had  killed  her  father, 
and  plotted  his  brother's  ruin.  But  more  awful,  a  thousand 
•times,  was  the  thought  that  George  might  be  innocent, 
and  that  she,  to  screen  her  husband,  might  have  been  com- 
pelled to  send  him  to  his  death. 

Minutes  dragged  on;  the  time  of  waiting  grew  intol- 
erable. Suddenly,  for  the  first  time,  the  thought  of  her 
mother  crossed  her  mind.  Poor  little  timid,  nervous  wo- 
man! Greater  emotions  almost  blotted  out  Bess's  sorrow 
for  her  father's  death;  but  she  knew  that  the  hand  of 
death  must  have  softened  and  smoothed  out  all  harsher 
memories  of  him  in  her  mother's  mind,  and  one  loving 
heart,  at  least,  would  mourn  him  deeply  and  sincerely. 

"  'Lilah,"  she  said,  suddenly,  drying  her  eyes  and  start- 
ing up,  "I  must  go  to  mother.  Get  my  hat,  please,  and 
cloak." 

"What,  so  late  as  this,  missus?" 

"Yes,  yes.  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  it  before,  instead 
of  crying  like  this.  I  must  go  to  her  now — at  once." 

"Well,  I'll  go  with  you,  then.  You  can't  go  along  that 
dark  country  road  alone;  after  such  doings  as  this,  too." 

"Yes,  come  with  me.  But  I  can't  leave  her  alone — I 
oughtn't  to — with  just  the  servants  and  farm-hands — and 
father  lying  dead " 

"But  what  if  Must'  John  comes  in?" 

"He'll  come  past  the  farm  from  Sturry;  we  may  meet 
him  if  he's  early.  Wait,  I'll  write  a  note  saying  where  we 
are.  Very  likely  we'll  be  back  before  he  comes  home." 

The  two  women  put  out  the  lights,  and  closed  the  inn 
door  behind  them.  Very  dark  and  lonely  was  the  road; 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  335 

but  at  Eddington  the  windows  of  the  farmhouse  were  still 
lit  up.  A  maid  opened  the  back  door;  in  the  kitchen  sev- 
eral farm-hands  were  drinking  ale,  having  brought  in  the 
body  from  the  field  a  little  while  before.  There  was  none 
of  the  laughter  and  noisy  talk  which  usually  attended  a 
gathering  of  labourers.  Pinion  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
table,  and  had  evidently  told  his  story  in  every  detail; 
the  men  sucked  at  their  pipes,  and  one  was  asking  him  a 
diffident  question  when  Bess  entered.  They  dragged  off 
their  hats,  and  rose  respectfully  and  in  silence. 

"Where's  mother,  Molly?" 

"She's  upstairs,  mum — not  in  there;  they've  put  maister 
in  there.  Would  you  like  to  see  him,  mum,  afore  you  go 
up?" 

The  girl  half-opened  the  door  of  the  dining-room;  a 
lamp  was  set  on  a  table;  and  the  eyes  of  Huntingdon's 
ancestors — and  Bess's — looked  down  on  the  still,  sheeted 
form  of  the  master  who  had  joined  them. 

"No,  not  now — I'll  go  upstairs  at  once,"  said  Bess. 

In  all  the  house  there  was  that  hush  which  comes  when 
the  sleep  unbreakable  falls  on  one  of  the  inmates.  It  was 
very  strange  that  the  harsh,  autocratic  voice  would  never 
again  be  heard  in  those  rooms  or  on  those  stairs.  Delilah 
stayed  below.  Bess  found  her  mother  lying  on  a  great, 
gloomy  four-post  bed,  sobbing  quietly. 

"Mother!"  cried  Bess,  and  flung  her  arms  round  the 
poor  woman's  neck,  and  nestled  to  her  breast.  For  a  time 
they  had  no  words.  At  last  her  mother  found  relief  in 
talking.  It  had  come  so  suddenly,  this  tragedy.  He  had 
rushed  from  the  supper-table,  the  meal  only  half-finished; 
and  now  the  table  had  been  cleared  for  his  body  to  lie  on. 
It  was  unrealised,  unrealisable  as  yet.  All  the  nagging, 
all  the  querulousness,  all  the  bullying,  were  forgotten.  In 
broken  words  Mrs.  Huntingdon  sobbed  out  little  remem- 
bered kindnesses,  her  pride  in  his  strength,  rare  words  of 


336  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

tenderness  that  had  been  kept  in  her  heart  and  treasured 
up  through  all  that  she  had  endured.  And  Bess,  at  last, 
wept  with  her,  but  quietly.  If  her  mother  could  recall  all 
this  of  such  a  life — of  such  a  husband — what  had  she  her- 
self to  recollect!  Not  a  day  since  their  wedding  but  John 
had  shown  her  love,  and  kindness,  and  constant  thought 
for  her  happiness.  And  now  the  awful  suspicion  would  not 
be  silenced — try  as  she  might — that  Huntingdon,  driving 
John  to  madness,  had  met  death  at  his  hands. 

They  went  back  together,  Delilah  and  Bess,  to  the  inn, 
and  found  John  in  his  chair  in  the  little  parlour.  No  need 
for  questioning;  his  haggard  face  told  that  he  knew  of 
the  tragedy  and  the  arrest.  He  said  that  he  had  seen  the 
flames,  and  the  cart  carrying  George  to  prison,  and  had 
heard  of  Huntingdon's  death.  Nothing  else;  nothing  of 
the  pistol,  not  a  word  to  take  away  her  doubts.  Delilah 
was  full  of  her  story  of  the  night,  and  John  listened  with- 
out comment,  and  Bess  let  her  speak.  When  they  were 
alone  together,  she  might  ask  him  the  question  that  she 
was  longing  to  ask.  But  Delilah  went  to  bed;  and  John 
sat  dejectedly  in  his  chair;  and  Bess  was  frightened  into 
silence.  His  face  was  grey;  his  eyes,  when  he  raised  them 
to  hers,  had  a  strange,  half-furtive,  almost  hunted  look, 
quite  unfamiliar. 

"John  dear,  how  was  it " 

Oh,  she  couldn't  ask.  He  seemed  lost  in  thought;  when 
she  broke  off  lamely,  and  asked  if  he  would  have  any  food, 
the  question  had  to  be  repeated.  No,  he  wanted  nothing. 
But  a  minute  or  two  later  he  got  up,  and  poured  himself 
out  a  glass  of  spirits,  and  came  back  to  his  seat.  Long 
minutes  passed  in  silence.  Bess  took  his  hand  and  held  it. 

"Well,  lass,"  he  said,  at  last,  miserably,  "I  reckon  we'd 
better  go  to  bed." 

He  went  upstairs  slowly,  dragging  his  feet,  like  a  man  on 
whom  age  has  rushed  in  a  night. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  337 

Directly  after  breakfast  the  next  morning,  John  went 
out  without  a  word,  and  tramped  across  the  downs  towards 
Reculver,  anxious  to  be  alone  with  his  thoughts.  He  had 
not  been  gone  very  long  when  Ford  entered  the  taproom. 
Delilah  was  still  upstairs,  making  the  beds.  Bess's  heart 
beat  faster  as  she  came  forward  to  meet  him.  Would  he 
give  her  any  key  to  the  mystery  that  had  kept  sleep  at 
bay  through  the  long  and  awful  night? 

"Hullo,  Bess,"  he  said,  in  his  bluff,  jerky  way — and  then 
changed  his  manner  awkwardly,  suddenly  remembering 
that  this  was  a  house  of  mourning.  "Terrible  bad  news  I 
hear — it's  true,  I  suppose?  Your  father  shot,  they  say, 
and  George  back  again,  and  had  up  for  shooting  him.  I 
thought  the  man  who  told  me  had  got  hold  of  some  yarn 
or  other,  but  I  hurried  away  at  once  to  see  you.  Didn't 
like  to  call  at  the  farm  and  ask;  besides,  I  don't  know  your 
mother  very  well.  Where's  John?  I  haven't  seen  him 
for  an  age.  It'll  be  a  sad  blow  for  him,  and  for  you  too. 
I  hope  they'll  find  it  wasn't  George.  John  inside?" 

"  No — he — he's  just  gone  out." 

"Well,  I  can't  stop.  I've  got  a  sale  over  at  Swalecliffe; 
but  I  thought  I'd  ride  over  here  on  my  way.  Thanks, 
I'll  have  a  mug  of  ale  and  then  get  back.  Nance  is  in  a 
rare  way  about  it.  George  and  her  used  to  be  pretty  good 
friends;  most  on  her  side,  I  think.  Lord!  I've  often  chaffed 
her  about  that.  Arrested  him  here,  too,  they  say?  No 
wonder  you  look  pale,  my  girl." 

He  rode  off  again  at  last,  and  Bess  went  in,  and  shut  the 
door,  with  a  sinking  heart.  Then  it  was  John!  Some 
accident,  perhaps — something  to  be  explained — oh,  she 
could  never  believe  that  he  had  gone  out  with  the  inten- 
tion— and  yet  he  had  taken  the  pistol,  he  must  have  taken 
it.  Oh,  if  only  fate  had  not  sent  her  to  that  drawer,  where 
it  had  lain  so  long,  unnoticed  and  undisturbed!  John  had 
told  her  that  he  had  meant  to  see  the  Fords;  and  he  had 
22 


338  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

not  gone  there.  Pinion  had  thought  her  father  called 
John's  name;  George  had  protested  that  he  had  seen  him 
fire  the  shot;  she  knew  only  too  well  the  motives  which 
might  have  driven  her  husband  to  such  a  deed,  and  how 
much  he  had  to  gain  from  Roger  Huntingdon's  death. 
Oh,  what  could  she  believe?  What  could  she  do? 

This  only — she  could  fight,  with  all  a  woman's  weapons; 
fairly  and  unfairly;  selfishly,  with  all  the  selfishness  which 
is  part  of  the  unselfishness  of  a  woman's  love — she  could 
fight  against  fate  for  her  husband's  life.  She  had  told  one 
lie;  she  felt  that  she  had  told  another,  tacitly,  to  Ford, 
when  she  kept  silence;  yet  if  there  were  to  be  no  more 
truth  for  her  in  the  world,  if  God  would  demand  the  utter- 
most payment  from  her  for  defiance  of  truth,  still  she 
must  fight. 

George  had  achieved  one  of  his  ambitions;  people  cer- 
tainly talked  of  him  in  his  native  place,  now  that  he  had 
returned.  During  the  day  the  tragedy  brought  custom 
to  the  inn;  men  dropped  in  ostensibly  for  their  pots  of 
ale,  but  in  reality  to  hear  fresh  news.  They  were  disap- 
pointed. Neither  John  nor  Bess  gave  them  any  encour- 
agement to  discuss  the  matter.  Even  Delilah,  so  eager  a 
retailer  usually  of  gruesome  news,  found  this  too  near 
home  to  be  pleasant,  and  took  her  cue  of  reticence  from 
her  employers.  Most  of  the  callers  at  the  inn  had  sufficient 
delicacy  to  wait,  when  they  found  that  information  was 
not  volunteered.  Those  who  ventured  to  broach  the  sub- 
ject themselves,  and  were  rash  enough  to  ask  point-blank 
questions,  got  little  profit  for  their  pains. 

On  the  night  following  the  tragedy,  the  borsholder 
called  to  warn  Bess  and  Delilah  that  their  evidence  might 
be  needed  at  the  inquest,  which  was  to  be  held  the  next 
morning  at  the  farm.  Nothing  connected  John  with  the 
tragedy  except  his  brother's  accusation;  and  his  presence 
would  be  entirely  a  matter  of  his  own  choice.  The  general 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  339 

public  would  probably  be  excluded,  but  his  relationship 
to  both  George  and  Roger  Huntingdon  would  no  doubt 
secure  his  admittance  if  he  cared  to  attend.  A  difficult 
question,  this;  he  debated  it  anxiously,  and  was  now  all  in 
a  heat  to  go,  and  now  as  eager  to  avoid  the  ordeal  at  any 
cost.  Would  his  absence  lead  to  any  comment?  Would 
George  be  there? 

John  felt  little  sympathy  for  his  brother,  and  had  few 
compunctions  about  remaining  silent.  It  seemed  signifi- 
cant of  God's  justice  that  George  should  have  caught  his 
own  neck  in  the  noose  he  had  prepared  for  an  innocent 
man,  already  so  deeply  wronged.  Morally,  George  was 
guilty  of  all  that  had  happened,  and  deserved  the  penalty; 
and,  even  by  the  bare  letter  of  the  law,  his  life  was  forfeit 
for  setting  the  rick  in  flames.  John's  silence  would  add 
nothing  to  his  punishment. 

But  it  was  one  thing  to  keep  silent;  quite  another  to 
deny  his  share  in  the  tragedy,  and  swear  that  he  had  had 
no  hand  in  the  farmer's  death.  Could  George  make  him 
speak?  Could  he  force  him,  in  open  court — before  men 
who  had  known  him  for  years,  and  had  known  his  word  to 
be  his  bond — could  George  force  him  to  choose  deliberately 
between  truth  and  a  spoken  lie? 

He  passed  a  restless  night;  in  the  morning,  he  let  Bess 
and  Delilah  start  for  Eddington  without  him.  But  no 
sooner  had  they  gone,  than  anxiety  to  see  and  know  every- 
thing— even  at  personal  risk — urged  him  to  follow  them. 
A  neighbour  undertook  to  stay  at  the  inn  until  his  return. 
They  had  reached  the  white  gate  before  he  caught  up 
with  them,  and  a  little  group  of  men  were  already  assem- 
bled at  the  farmhouse  door. 

The  sunshine  of  a  bright  morning  in  late  winter  seemed 
to  draw  the  warmth  of  hundreds  of  summers  from  the 
mellowed,  red-brick  walls  of  the  farm.  Birds  twittered 
in  the  naked  branches  of  the  trees  and  among  the 


340  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

evergreens;  blue  smoke  curled  from  the  old  lichen-crusted 
chimneys;  on  the  peaked  roof  of  Caesar's  empty  kennel  a 
robin  had  perched,  and  eyed  the  newcomers  impudently, 
with  his  head  on  one  side,  and  his  little  scarlet  vest  thrust 
forward  consequentially — a  tiny  travesty  of  the  borsholder, 
who,  at  that  moment,  was  coming  up  the  rutted  lane. 
John  saw  the  wide  brown  slope  of  the  fields,  stretching  to 
the  hazy  woodlands;  far  away,  a  group  of  labourers,  very 
small,  brown  as  the  soil,  like  maggots  bred  of  some  great 
cheese — it  was  hard,  indeed,  to  distinguish  them  from  the 
earth  which  had  produced  them  and  now  supported  them, 
and  would,  at  last,  take  them  to  itself  again.  Everything 
was  so  familiar,  and  so  quiet,  and  so  secure,  that  it  made 
the  day's  business  seem  foreign  and  unreal.  But  in  one 
field  close  at  hand  that  awful  night  had  left  its  mark  in 
the  charred  and  blackened  earth. 

The  inquest  was  to  be  held  in  the  kitchen  of  the  farm- 
house. The  borsholder  took  John  in,  and  pointed  him  out 
a  seat;  Bess  and  Delilah  and  other  witnesses  had  to  wait 
together  in  a  little  breakfast-room  until  their  names  were 
called.  The  kitchen,  a  low,  spacious  room,  floored  with 
worn  red  tiles,  had  been  cleared  as  far  as  possible  for  its 
new  office.  Pans  and  pails,  brooms  and  brushes,  had  been 
bundled  out  of  sight;  even  the  dusky  hams  had  been  taken 
from  their  hooks  in  the  blackened  rafters.  Benches  were 
set  round  the  long  table — scarcely  dry  yet  from  Molly's 
vigorous  scrubbing  in  the  early  morning.  Chairs  had  been 
brought  in  from  the  dining-room;  and  the  dead  master's 
great  oak  chair,  used  by  many  generations,  and  shiny  with 
much  service,  was  at  the  head  of  the  table  ready  for  the 
Coroner. 

Several  men  were  already  in  the  room,  huddled  close 
like  sheep,  and  looking  sheepish  and  ungainly;  only  one 
had  much  to  say,  and  he,  John  noticed,  was  Stebbings,  the 
taproom  politician.  But  in  a  minute  there  was  a  cry  of 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  341 

"Order"  and  "Silence,"  and  the  Coroner  came  in,  bowed 
solemnly  to  the  room,  and  took  his  seat. 

It  was  Mr.  Jeacock,  of  Jeacock  and  Wetherby,  the  Can- 
terbury lawyers.  His  clerk,  whom  John  had  sometimes 
seen  during  his  visits  about  the  mortgage,  was  already  at 
the  table;  a  small,  parched  man,  dressed  in  rusty  brown, 
very  bright-eyed,  very  jerky  in  his  movements — a  strik- 
ing contrast  in  every  way  to  his  large  and  placid  chief. 
Mr.  Jeacock  took  his  watch  from  its  fob  and  compared  it 
with  the  kitchen  clock.  He  said  something  to  his  clerk 
in  a  low  voice,  and  Mr.  Pilbeam,  before  answering,  jumped 
from  his  chair,  jumped  to  the  window,  and  jumped  back 
again  like  a  boy  playing  at  touch-wood.  "No  sign  yet, 
sir,"  he  said. 

For  a  few  minutes  Mr.  Jeacock  sat  dangling  his  watch, 
with  his  third  chin  deeply  buried  in  his  stock.  The  little 
clerk  took  snuff,  and  snapped  the  lid  of  his  box  as  if  a 
small  brown  double  of  himself  were  shut  in  it  and  might 
spring  out.  One  or  two  men  coughed  nervously,  and  there 
was  the  sound  of  shuffling  feet.  Mr.  Jeacock  whispered 
again,  papers  rustled,  then  the  jury  were  told  to  answer 
to  their  names. 

John  knew  a  few  personally,  some  by  name;  others  were 
quite  unknown  to  him.  It  was  like  schooldays  again — 
the  sing-song  of  the  names,  the  men's  answers,  some  bash- 
ful, some  bold,  one  a  nervous  squeak  which  sent  a  titter 
through  the  room,  instantly  suppressed.  Thirteen  were 
chosen,  and  they  were  directed  to  elect  their  foreman. 
Stebbings  and  a  burly  butcher  from  Herne  were  close 
rivals;  perhaps  the  knowledge  that  Stebbings  could  make 
himself  unpleasantly  cantankerous  if  opposed  turned  the 
scale  in  his  favour. 

"There  has  been  an  arrest  on  suspicion  in  connection 
with  this  case,"  said  Mr.  Jeacock,  "and  the  prisoner  has 
elected  to  be  present.  We  may  expect  him  here,  gentlemen, 


342  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

at  any  moment.  But  there  is  no  reason  why  the  jury 
should  not  see  the  body  at  once,  eh,  Mr.  Pilbeam?" 

"None  at  all,  sir — oh  dear  no — none  at  all." 

"You  will  be  good  enough  to  accompany  me  into  the 
other  room,  then." 

The  Coroner  rose  ponderously,  his  clerk  whipped  up 
books  and  papers  in  a  great  armful,  and  the  jury  trooped 
out  of  the  kitchen.  Huntingdon's  body  was  still  lying  in 
the  dining-room  where  it  had  been  placed  on  the  night  of 
his  death.  John  could  hear  the  mumble  of  distant  voices 
as  Stebbings  and  the  jurors  took  their  oaths  before  exam- 
ining the  corpse.  The  kitchen  clock  ticked  out  the  slow 
minutes.  Then  he  heard  the  sound  of  wheels  drawing 
near  the  house,  and  his  heart  beat  faster.  George  had 
come! 

At  last  the  Coroner  returned,  and  the  jury  took  their 
places.  The  door  opened  again.  "All  right,"  said  an 
angry,  husky  voice  in  the  passage;  "I  can  go  in  by  myself, 
can't  I?  Take  your  hand  off  my  collar  then." 

George's  eyes  swept  the  room.  There  was  resentment 
in  them — defiance — a  kind  of  sullen  contempt  for  the  men 
who  had  trapped  him,  and  the  men  who  were  to  sit  in 
judgment  on  his  deeds.  At  first  he  did  not  see  his  brother. 
He  was  given  a  seat  near  the  Coroner,  and  the  two  warders 
who  had  brought  him  from  Canterbury  stood  close  at  hand. 

Mr.  Jeacock  was  saying  something  to  the  jury  in  his 
deliberate,  cautious,  heavy  voice.  John  tried  to  keep  his 
eyes  from  his  brother's  face,  but  again  and  again  they 
sought  it.  George's  appearance  alone  might  have  gone 
far  to  convict  him.  He  sat  near  the  latticed  window,  and 
the  winter  sun  shone  full  on  him.  It  lit  up  the  pale,  hag- 
gard cheeks,  unshaven  and  unwashed,  the  ragged  clothes 
clotted  with  dry  mud;  his  restless  eyes  were  bloodshot 
through  misery  and  lack  of  wholesome  sleep.  John  was 
puzzled  by  the  look  in  them;  was  it  haunting  fear,  now,  or 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  343 

hopelessness,  or  weariness  and  disillusion?  He  felt,  against 
his  will,  compassion  rising  in  him.  When  George  had 
called  at  the  inn  that  night,  it  had  been  too  dark  to  see  him 
clearly;  the  change  which  a  few  months  had  wrought  was 
startling,  appalling.  And  this  pitiful,  broken  wretch, 
caught  in  the  remorseless  wheels  of  the  law.  which  would 
tear  his  very  life  from  him  at  last — this  was  his  brother! 
George  looked  through  the  latticed  window,  over  green 
grass,  brown  fields,  woods  hazy  with  blue  mist,  blue  sky 
beyond  all  and  over  all.  Freedom  there  for  beast  and 
bird,  and  the  humblest  insect  that  sparkled  in  the  sun- 
shine or  burrowed  in  the  soil.  The  open  world,  lost  and 
shut  out  for  ever!  John  remembered  how  his  brother  had 
loved  liberty  and  hated  restraint  even  as  a  little  lad.  How 
he  used  to  shout  for  sheer  joy  of  living,  when  the  school 
doors  were  flung  open,  and  they  were  free  to  scamper  on 
the  downs,  to  bathe  in  the  summer  sea,  to  play  pirates  and 
adventurers  in  that  little,  round-bellied,  snub-nosed  boat, 
which  the  glamour  of  boyhood  made  more  wonderful  than 
Argo  or  Bucentaur,  than  the  Golden  Hind  or  the  Revenge! 

George  turned  his  head  again,  and  their  eyes  met. 

Sudden  hope  seemed  to  rush  into  the  prisoner's  face. 
He  opened  his  lips  as  if  to  speak,  but  checked  himself. 
He  gave  his  brother  a  long,  direct  look — wistful,  pleading, 
half-grateful  already.  "Help  me!"  that  glance  cried; 
"I  know  you  have  come  to  help  me."  "Oh,  I  must  speak 
—I  must  tell  everything!"  John  thought,  pity  master- 
ing him.  But  at  once  he  remembered  that  only  truth  and 
a  lie  could  help  his  brother.  He  must  accept  all  the  guilt 
or  none.  There  was  no  way  out.  He  turned  his  head 
away;  when  he  looked  again,  George  eyed  him  bitterly 
and  with  contempt. 

"Ezekiel  Pinion!     Ezekiel  Pinion!" 

The  shouted  name  was  echoed  in  the  passage.  John, 
with  his  cheeks  flaming,  watched  the  lad's  entry.  Young 


344  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Pinion  shambled  awkwardly  into  the  room;  the  rustling 
of  his  stiff,  clean  smock,  the  clatter  of  his  hob-nailed  boots 
on  the  tiled  floor,  sounded  very  loud  in  the  hushed  silence. 
He  began  his  story  with  George's  visit  to  the  farm  in  search 
of  work.  George  listened  in  silence  to  his  account  of  the 
dog's  attack;  but  he  broke  out  suddenly  when  the  lad 
brought  in  imagination  to  help  his  facts.  Malice  and  a 
new  sense  of  importance  lent  zest  to  Ezekiel's  evidence; 
but,  to  do  him  justice,  he  was  honestly  convinced  of  the 
truth  of  his  narrative.  It  had  been  embroidered,  however, 
in  the  course  of  much  discussion  and  unwonted  thinking; 
and  he  asserted  incidentally  that  he  had  seen  the  pistol 
sticking  from  George's  pocket. 

"That's  a  lie!"  cried  George,  half  springing  up. 

Mr.  Jeacock  checked  him  with  a  motion  of  his  white, 
flabby  hand.  "Silence,  silence,  please!"  he  said.  "It  is 
in  my  discretion  to  allow  the  prisoner  to  ask  questions  of 
the  witness  afterwards.  I  will  give  you  that  opportunity 
if  you  wish.  .  .  .  Now,  my  boy,  be  careful,  and  remem- 
ber you  are  on  your  oath.  You  must  be  quite  certain 
before  you  speak — quite  certain.  Yes,  go  on." 

"I  did  see  it,  sir;  I  see  the  pistol  sticking  out  of  his 
coat,"  the  lad  said,  doggedly,  his  eyes  never  moving  from 
George's  face.  "So  I  follered  un,  and  'a  went  to  Herne, 
and  corned  back  again,  and  I  see  un  a-hiding  in  the  hedge, 
and  I  thoft " 

"No,  no,  no.  Never  mind  what  you  thought.  Tell  us 
what  you  saw,  and  what  you  did." 

"Why,  I  runned  to  t'  farm,  sir,  and  Must'  Huntingdon 
corned  out " 

He  went  on  to  the  end  of  his  story  uninterrupted,  though 
once  or  twice  George  bent  forward  as  if  to  speak.  When 
he  had  finished 

"  Now,  if  you  have  any  questions  to  ask  him "  began 

Mr.  Jeacock. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  345 

"Yes,  I  have,"  cried  George.  "It's  a  pack  of  lies,  nearly 
every  word.  I  laced  him  once,  and  seemingly  he  hasn't 
forgotten,  and  has  trumped  up  all  this  out  of  spite.  I 
wasn't  in  the  hedge;  I  went  to  the  shaw  to  sleep;  and  I 
hadn't  the  pistol — that's  a  damned — that's  a  lie,  too,  I 
mean " 

The  Coroner  tried  in  vain  to  silence  him  for  a  minute; 
at  last  he  ordered  him  peremptorily  to  hold  his  tongue. 
"You  can  ask  the  lad  any  question  you  like.  You  must 
please  confine  yourself  to  that.  I  cannot  allow  you  to  make 
a  speech." 

"Very  well,  sir."  George  moistened  his  dry  lips  with 
his  tongue.  "Look  here,"  he  said,  "you  say  I  had  the 
pistol  in  my  coat.  How  did  you  know  that?" 

"I  see  it,  I  tell  you." 

"You've  rare  sharp  eyes,  then,  to  see  through  a  pocket. 
See  if  it  was  loaded,  too,  eh?" 

"  No.  I  see  part  of  it  sticking  out,  though,  all  glisterin'." 
Perhaps  the  glitter  of  a  button  had  caught  the  boy's  eye, 
and  fixed  the  idea  in  his  mind. 

"  If  I  had  the  pistol  with  me,  why  didn't  I  shoot  the  dog? " 

"Idunno.  Perhaps  you  hadn't  loaded  it  then.  I  reckon 
you  didn't  want  Must'  Huntingdon  to  know " 

"Have  you  any  other  questions?"  asked  Mr.  Jeacock. 

"Yes,  sir.  Didn't  Mr.  Huntingdon  shout  out,  'It's 
John  Kennett, '  when  he  was  shot?" 

"No,  'a  never.     'A  shouted  '  Jarge '  ' 

"You  liar!" 

"Really,"  broke  in  the  Coroner  again,  "you  do  yourself 
no  good  by  these  outbursts — no  good  at  all.  If  you  want 
to  ask  the  witness  any  other  questions " 

"It's  no  use  asking  for  more  lies,"  said  George,  sullenly. 

"Do  the  jury  want  to  ask  any  questions?" 

The  invitation  found  the  jury  unprepared.  Stebbings 
had  been  nodding  his  head  energetically  throughout;  his 


346  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

face  worked  now  spasmodically,  and,  just  as  the  witness 
was  standing  down,  he  blurted  out  the  first  inquiry  that 
entered  his  head:  "What  colour  hair,  now,  had  the  man 
who  corned  to  ax  Must'  Huntingdon  for  work?" 

"What  colour?    Why,  same  as  his'n,  of  course!" 

"Ah!"  said  Stebbings,  nodding  his  head  with  an  air  of 
great  sageness  and  profundity,  and  jotted  down  a  note. 

The  witness  put  his  mark  to  the  abstract  of  his  evidence, 
and  went  out,  eyeing  George  with  a  look  of  malicious 
triumph.  Old  Pinion  came  next,  very  cautious  and  as  far 
as  possible  non-committal  in  his  evidence  and  answers. 
He  had  not  seen  the  pistol,  but  George's  coat  "looked 
bulgy-like."  "That  was  vittles  in  my  pocket,"  said  George. 
On  the  most  important  point,  however,  the  old  man  was 
not  to  be  shaken.  Ever  since  the  arrest  he  had  been  mut- 
tering to  himself  the  two  names,  John  and  George.  He 
had  persuaded  himself  that  the  safest  position  lay  not  in 
vagueness,  but  in  unswerving  adherence  to  one  name. 
Huntingdon,  he  said,  had  called  out  "Jarge  Kennett"— 
but  short-like — "Jodge  Kennett" — he  gave  an  imitation 
of  the  cry,  in  his  piping,  senile  voice. 

The  Coroner  put  a  question  or  two.  It  was  evident  that 
Huntingdon  had  felt  himself  in  the  near  presence  of  death 
when  he  had  shouted  out  the  name  of  his  murderer.  "  You 
have  that  down,  Mr.  Pilbeam?" 

"One  moment,  sir."  The  quill  scratched  furiously. 
"Yes,  sir,  yes."  Mr.  Pilbeam  leant  back  and  took  a  hasty 
pinch  from  his  box. 

"  Delilah  Gummer!     Delilah  Gummer! " 

Delilah  had  some  scruples  about  the  oath,  but  overcame 
them  when  she  found  that  without  it  her  evidence  could 
not  be  given.  She  began  her  story  with  George's  birth, 
and  had  to  be  brought  back  abruptly  to  the  present  day. 
Mr.  Jeacock's  third  chin  emerged  several  times  from  his 
stock  as  he  steered  her  clear  of  sermons  and  Dr.  Watts. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  347 

Her  evidence  did  George  this  much  harm,  that  it  explained 
his  animus  against  his  brother.  He  questioned  her  sharply 
about  the  Spanish  pistol. 

"You  know  it  was  in  the  house  after  I  went  away?" 

"I  doan't  know  nothing  of  the  sort,  I  doan't,"  she  said. 
"I  never  see  it  after  that  night  until  you  corned  back  to 
the  inn  with  it.  I  wish  the  gorilla'd  kep'  the  nasty  thing, 
I  do.  You  won't  never  terrify  me  into  saying  what  ain't 
true,  Must'  Jarge,  and  it  ain't  no  use  glaring  at  me  like 
that — me  that  smacked  you  many  a  time  when  you  wasn't 
not  more'n  this  table  high,  though  God  forgive  me  for 
sparing  the  rod  as  much  as  I  did " 

Delilah  was  brought  to  a  stop  at  last,  and  Bess's  name 
was  called.  John  had  noticed  his  brother's  anxiety  to 
prove  that  the  pistol  had  not  been  in  his  possession,  and 
he  knew  that  the  whole  case  turned  on  this  point.  The 
only  evidence  likely  to  connect  him  with  the  crime  would 
be  an  admission  by  Delilah  or  by  Bess  that  George  had  not 
taken  the  pistol  with  him  to  London.  Since  the  nine  days' 
wonder  of  George's  return  from  the  wars,  the  weapon  had 
rested  at  the  bottom  of  an  old  drawer,  under  a  pile  of  things 
which  were  rarely  disturbed.  Fortunately,  Delilah  had 
not  seen  it.  But  Bess? 

She  did  not  seem  to  notice  him  as  she  passed  to  her 
place;  and  John  saw  that  she  carefully  kept  her  eyes  from 
his  brother.  A  shaft  of  sunlight  from  the  latticed  window 
fell  on  her,  and  found  tints  of  unsuspected  gold  in  her  dark 
hair,  in  the  flushed  dimpled  cheeks,  and  the  soft  little 
chin — John  thought  of  lovers'  play  with  buttercups  in  the 
fields.  Bess  was  dressed  in  dark  colours,  almost  black. 
All  eyes  in  the  room  were  upon  her. 

She  was  sworn;  Mr.  Jeacock's  ponderous  manner  be- 
came almost  paternal  as  he  assured  her  that  only  the  brief- 
est statement  was  necessary.  In  a  few  words  she  told  of 
the  arrest.  George  leant  forward,  listening  intently;  but 


348  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

all  the  time  she  was  speaking  she  looked  steadily  at  the 
wall  ahead  of  her. 

"I  want  to  ask  you  some  questions,  Bess,"  said  George, 
huskily,  when  she  had  finished;  "I  reckon  you'll  answer 
true,  and  not  swear  my  life  away  like  others.  Did  Pinion 
say  it  was  my  name  your  feyther  shouted  out,  or  some 
one  else's?" 

Bess  hesitated. 

" Mind,  I'm  not  asking  you  to  say  whose.    Was  it  mine? " 

"It  seems  to  me  that  this  is  an  attempt  to  make  you 
incriminate  your  husband,  Mrs.  Kennett,"  said  Mr.  Jea- 
cock.  "You  can  answer  or  not,  as  you  please." 

"I — well,  he  was  not  sure  at  first,"  said  Bess.  "He — 
he  said  he  could  not  hear  very  plainly." 

"Well,  that's  something  now,"  said  George.  "Now 
about  the  pistol,  Bess.  You  know  I  didn't  take  it  away 
that  night?  You  must  have  seen  it  since  in  the  drawer?" 

She  stood  silent,  trying  to  frame  words;  mechanically, 
her  hands  went  up  to  her  hair  with  the  old  gesture  as  she 
thought  over  her  answer.  Intense  pity  for  her  surged  up 
in  John's  heart,  and  indignation  that  she  should  be  made 
to  stand  there  under  those  curious  eyes;  and,  as  the  si- 
lence was  prolonged,  a  secret  anxiety  lest  the  pistol  should 
really  have  been  noticed. 

"Again  I  may  tell  you  that  you  are  not  compelled  to 
answer,  Mrs.  Kennett,' '  said  the  Coroner,  kindly.  "  I  under- 
stand your  natural  reluctance  to — er — have  any  part  in 
bringing  home  the  prisoner's  guilt.  On  the  other  hand,  as 
I  said  before,  you  cannot  be  made  to  incriminate  your 
husband  in  any  way." 

"I'm  not  asking  her  to,"  said  George,  hotly.  "I  don't 
want  to  prove  he  took  it.  Look  here,  Bess,  if  the  pistol 
was  at  the  inn  any  time  after  I  left  for  London — just  after, 
if  you  like — they  can't  hang  me.  No  need  to  say  John 
had  it.  He  might  have  given  it  away,  or — or  anything " 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  349 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  speak  without  interruption?" 
asked  the  Coroner,  a  little  testily,  after  one  or  two  attempts 
to  break  in.  "You  can  answer  the  question  or  leave  it 
unanswered,  as  you  please,  Mrs.  Kennett." 

"I — I — oh,  I  would  rather  not  answer  it,"  said  Bess. 
"No,  I'd— I'd  rather  not,  please." 

"You  won't,  Bess?  Good  God!  my  girl,  you  must;  you 
can't  let  me — oh,  you  know  well  enough  I  never  took  it 
away.  Look  at  me — don't  get  staring  there  out  of  window 
— look  at  me,  and  tell  the  truth;  you  know  it  well  enough. 
How  could  I  have  taken  it  to  London  that  night?  It  was 
in  your  bedroom.  You  won't  answer  because  you  know 
— oh,  I  don't  care;  I'll  tell  the  truth  and  shame  the  devil, 
if  no  one  else  will — because  you  know  in  your  heart  who 
killed  your  feyther.  What  else  can  your  not  answering 
mean  but  that?" 

"No,  no!"  gasped  Bess. 

"Yes,  I  say,  yes!"  His  voice  rose  to  a  shout,  drowning 
the  cries  for  order.  "There's  the  man  who  ought  to  have 
these  things  on" — he  sprang  up,  pointing  out  John  with 
his  shackled  hands,  and  clashing  the  iron  manacles  together 
in  his  rage — "there  he  is;  it's  him  who  killed  Roger  Hunt- 
ingdon, not  me!  I  saw  him,  and  my  evidence's  as  good  as 
anybody  else's.  Why  don't  you  call  him?  Let  him  say 
where  he  was  that  night — what  he  was  doing.  Let  me  be 
— I  saw  him,  I  say " 

George  was  forced  back  into  his  seat,  but  John  had 
risen  almost  instinctively  in  the  excitement.  Afterwards, 
of  all  the  three  long  hours  of  the  inquest,  that  moment 
alone  was  stamped  clearly  and  vividly  on  his  brain,  every 
detail  and  feature  distinct,  coloured,  sharply  cut.  He  saw 
the  latticed  window,  framing  the  fields  and  wood  and  sky; 
the  dull,  worn  red  tiles  of  the  floor,  and  Bess  standing, 
pale  now  and  wide-eyed,  in  the  shaft  of  sunlight.  He  saw 
the  jury,  some  full  face,  some  in  profile;  Stebbings,  with 


350  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

his  long  whiskers  and  red  nose  and  rabbit  teeth,  the  ruddy- 
cheeked  butcher  beside  him,  and  on  the  other  side  the  wise, 
solemn  visage  of  Timothy  Thorn.  John  realised  almost 
with  a  shock  that  he  had  risen  to  his  feet.  What  was  he 
going  to  say?  The  crucial  moment  had  come;  he  must 
choose  between  denial  and  confession.  And  naked  truth 
alone  could  not  save  his  brother,  pis  head  swam.  There 
was  George,  dragged  back  by  his  gaolers,  but  thrusting 
his  linked  hands  towards  him,  forcing  the  lie  upon  him. 

"Where  were  you  that  night?  You're  afraid  to  answer. 
Where  were  you?  Prove  where  you  were." 

"I  was  at  Sturry."  John's  own  voice  seemed  strange  to 
him. 

"Prove  it.     Who  saw  you  there?" 

But  Mr.  Jeacock,  having  lost  his  voice  in  an  asthmatic 
fit  of  coughing,  was  hammering  on  the  table  for  order. 
"Mr.  Kennett,"  he  wheezed  out,  at  last,  "there  is  no  occa- 
sion for  you  to  answer  his  questions.  All  this  is  most 
irregular — most  disorderly.  Eh,  Mr.  Pilbeam?  Most  irreg- 
ular. This  is  an  inquiry  into  the  death  of  Mr.  Hunting- 
don. You  are  abusing  the  opportunity  I  have  given  you, 
prisoner.  I  arranged  in  your  interest  that  you  should  be 
present,  but  you  abuse  the  privilege.  Your  brother  is  not 
on  his  trial;  he  has  no  need  to  exculpate  himself.  You  can- 
not ask  him  for  an  account  of  his  movements.  If  you  have 
any  direct  knowledge  of  the  tragedy,  you  may  give  evi- 
dence, Mr.  Kennett.  I  am  willing  to  hear  your  evidence. 
Otherwise " 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,  sir,"  said  John,  slowly. 

"You  won't  say  anything,  you  mean!"  cried  George. 
"You " 

"Silence!  I  will  not  allow  you  to  interrupt  like  this. 
If  you  persist  in  shouting  across  the  court,  I  shall  be  com- 
pelled to  order  your  removal.  .  .  .  Call  the  next  wit- 
ness." 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  351 

George  listened  in  sullen  silence  to  the  evidence  of  the 
succeeding  witnesses,  and  asked  no  questions.  When  the 
borsholder  produced  the  tinder-box,  and  then  fitted  to- 
gether a  scrap  of  charred  paper  and  the  torn  news-sheet 
in  which  the  food  had  been  wrapped,  he  growled  out  one 
comment.  "That  came  from  the  inn.  My  brother  knows 
that.  Oh,  go  on.  It's  no  use  my  talking  down  a  pack  of 
liars.  Go  on.  Call  your  next  liar  in."  He  yawned,  as  if 
weary  of  the  whole  proceedings,  and  settled  himself  again 
in  his  chair. 

Mr.  Jeacock  summed  up  at  last,  very  briefly.  There 
was  not  a  shred  of  evidence  in  favour  of  the  prisoner.  The 
jury  went  out.  The  kitchen  door  opened  again  at  last,  and 
Stebbings  entered,  anxious  to  refer  some  point  of  law  or 
form  to  the  Coroner.  They  and  the  clerk  whispered  to- 
gether, Stebbings's  head  nodding  all  the  time  like  a  toy 
mandarin's.  He  clattered  back  to  the  panel.  The  clock 
ticked;  George  yawned  noisily;  in  the  yard  a  hen  clucked 
proudly  over  a  delivered  egg.  Mr.  Pilbeam  took  snuff,  and 
closed  his  box  with  a  loud  snap  as  the  jury  shambled  in. 

"You  have  decided  on  your  verdict,  gentlemen?"  asked 
Mr.  Jeacock.  He  put  a  few  questions,  which  Stebbings 
answered.  "Wilful  murder  against  George  Kennett,"  the 
Coroner  said  at  last,  briefly,  summing  up  the  verdict. 

There  was  a  buzz  in  court;  Mr.  Jeacock  raised  his  hand. 
"I  shall  issue  a  warrant  of  detainer,  George  Kennett,  and 
the  principal  witnesses  will  be  bound  over  to  appear  at 
the  trial.  There  are  none  in  your  favour,  and  in  any  case 
my  office  allows  me  to  bind  over  only  those  for  the  prose- 
cution. I  think  there  is  no  need  for  Mrs.  Kennett  to  ap- 
pear again;  her  evidence  and  the  maid's  are  identical. 
You,  of  course,  will  have  the  opportunity  of  calling  any 
fresh  evidence  you  wish." 

Mr.  Pilbeam  was  already  busy  with  pen  and  parchment; 
the  jury  were  instructed  to  wait  and  sign  the  inquisition. 


352  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

George's  warders  stood  by  the  prisoner  until  the  warrant 
of  detainer  authorising  his  continued  imprisonment  was 
made  out. 

John  and  Bess  rose  and  went  towards  the  door.  The 
clerk  was  muttering  over  the  words  of  the  inquisition  as 
his  pen  moved  across  the  parchment:  "  .  .  .  and  that  the 
said  George  Kennett  did  feloniously,  wilfully,  and  of  malice 
aforethought,  murder  the  said  Roger  Huntingdon.  ..." 

"Good-bye,"  cried  George,  as  they  reached  the  thresh- 
old. "I  hope  you'll  sleep  sound  after  this  day's  work, 
John,  and  think  of  me  in  church  next  Sunday,  you  canting 
murderer  and  liar!" 

John's  cheeks  stung,  but  he  made  no  answer,  though 
for  a  second  he  met  his  brother's  eyes. 

Walking  home,  he  saw  nothing  of  the  hard,  white  road, 
the  brown  fields  and  waste  land,  the  naked  trees,  the  sky. 
He  saw  nothing  of  the  sun-bright,  restless  sea,  fretting  at 
the  yellow  bases  of  the  cliffs  and  tumbling  its  glassy  waves 
on  the  shingle  with  a  noise  like  mocking  laughter.  The 
door  was  shut.  Soon  after  their  meal  the  window  framed 
an  afternoon  sky  all  saffron  and  mauve  and  rose.  He 
looked  out,  but  saw  it  not.  All  he  saw  was  the  farm 
kitchen  crowded  with  men;  the  latticed  window,  the 
red-tiled  floor;  Bess  standing  in  the  sunshine — and  his 
brother's  eyes;  his  brother's  eyes — on  him,  not  her — hard, 
unwinking,  yet  ever  changing;  his  brother's  eyes,  angry, 
frightened,  hopeless,  contemptuous,  accusing. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE  last  weeks  of  winter  passed;  the  lengthened  days 
passed  quickly,  bringing  nearer,  remorselessly,  the 
final  tragedy.  There  was  no  need  now  at  the  inn  for  anxi- 
ety about  money.  The  shadow  hanging  over  them  made 
John  and  Bess  more  tender  and  affectionate.  But  there 
was  a  barrier  between  them,  of  which  both  were  conscious. 
Each  had  a  secret  to  guard  constantly  from  the  other. 
George's  name  was  rarely  mentioned;  but  in  the  brightest 
hours  of  sunshine,  while  the  trees  were  bursting  into  leaf, 
and  the  flowers  waking  from  their  long  sleep  in  the  earth, 
and  the  companies  of  joyous  birds  heralding  spring — in 
the  sunniest  hours  the  gloom  of  the  prison-house  was  over 
all  their  thoughts. 

John  assured  himself  again  and  again  that  his  silence 
had  not  wronged  his  brother.  It  would  have  been  the 
maddest  folly  to  speak.  George  would  have  to  die  in  any 
case,  for  arson  if  not  for  murder.  What  mattered  the 
charge  against  him?  And  murder — a  fouler  crime  than 
the  murder  of  Huntingdon  would  have  been,  a  crime  dia- 
bolic in  its  cold  and  ingenious  cruelty — had  been  in  his 
heart  when  he  ran  across  the  field  at  the  sound  of  John's 
coming.  He  deserved  his  fate  richly.  John  silenced  bis 
scruples  by  telling  himself  that  his  confession  would  not 
have  saved  his  brother.  There  was  no  object  in  putting 
his  own  neck  in  danger.  For  Bess's  sake  rather  than  for 
his  own  he  had  been  silent,  and  must  still  be  silent. 

Bess  found  herself  in  a  position  even  more  terrible.  She 
was  convinced  by  Ford's  visit  that  John  had  caused  her 
father's  death.  Accidentally,  she  hoped,  and  thrust  the 
thought  from  her  that  he  had  gone  out  that  night  with 
the  deliberate  intention  of  killing  the  man  who  had  just 
23  353 


354  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

ruined  them.  But  he  had  taken  the  pistol;  he  had  not 
been  to  Sturry;  he  was  desperate  at  the  news  that  Hunt- 
ingdon intended  to  foreclose;  and  her  father's  death  would 
mean  an  end  to  their  distress.  What  was  she  to  think? 
Her  mind  was  fixed  on  one  point:  come  what  would  or 
might,  she  would  fight  for  her  husband's  life  with  any 
weapon  in  her  armoury.  It  was  a  bitter  thing  to  have  to 
send  George  to  his  death — the  man  whose  childhood,  what- 
ever his  faults  and  misdeeds,  was  linked  so  closely  to  her 
own.  But  it  was  George's  life,  or  John's.  Resolutely  she 
resisted  all  stirrings  of  conscience;  she  had  spoken  on  the 
night  of  the  arrest  without  time  for  thought;  but  at  the 
inquest  she  had  suppressed  the  truth  deliberately,  and 
would  do  so  again,  if  need  were,  a  hundred  times,  let  con- 
science say  what  it  might.  And  the  terrible  thing  was  that 
she  had  to  keep  her  knowledge  from  John.  She  did  know. 
Every  day,  almost  every  hour  of  the  day,  confirmed  her 
fears.  Hard  as  he  tried,  convinced  though  he  was  of  his 
success,  his  nature  was  too  transparent  to  hold  a  secret  so 
tremendous.  There  was  a  new  and  furtive  look,  now — 
almost  a  hunted  look — in  his  eyes.  He  started  guiltily  at  a 
touch,  a  sudden  movement,  the  opening  of  the  door.  But 
not  by  word,  not  by  sign,  not  by  deed,  must  he  suppose 
for  a  moment  that  she  suspected  him.  She  made  pitiful 
efforts.  Any  one  less  firmly  convinced  than  he  of  her  abso- 
lute ignorance  must  have  been  undeceived  by  her  very 
eagerness  to  prove  it.  Bess  affected  cheerfulness,  and  then 
remembered  that  it  was  her  part  to  make  a  decent  show 
of  sorrow,  so  easily — ah,  so  very  easily — achieved.  And 
then  a  morbid  fear  lest  he  should  find  some  hint  of  the 
truth  in  her  subdued  voice  and  dismal  face  changed  her 
manner  instantly  to  forced  gayety.  She  was  in  constant 
dread  lest  at  any  moment  something  unforeseen,  over- 
looked— George's  sustained  protests,  some  scrap  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  not  guarded  against — might  attach 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  355 

suspicion  to  John.  And  her  position  with  her  husband 
had  been  suddenly  reversed.  She  had  looked  up  to  him, 
admired  his  frankness,  his  manly  simplicity  of  life  and 
purpose,  and  had  believed  that  in  no  circumstances  would 
he  for  any  gain  swerve  a  hair's-breadth  from  the  right. 
If  her  respect  grew  more  dim,  a  burning  pity  took  its 
place.  Wifely  love  seemed  to  have  become  maternal — a 
love  now  that  would  overlook  all,  pity  all,  forgive  all,  be 
loyal  in  spite  of  all.  Her  idol  had  feet  of  clay;  well,  if  she 
could  not  worship  it  as  flawless  any  longer,  her  woman's 
hands  should  stay  it  against  the  buffets  of  the  world;  she 
could  protect  it  even  with  her  life,  even  at  the  cost  of 
heaven. 

She  lay  awake  at  night  with  closed  eyes — thinking  him 
asleep,  while  he  too  heard  the  slow  hours  strike — and  went 
over  every  incident  again  and  again;  now  feeling  con- 
vinced for  a  moment,  in  a  sudden  uplifting  of  the  heart, 
that  he  was  innocent,  and  her  fancies  were  disloyal  and 
unfounded ;  now  weighed  down  with  the  crushing  evidences 
against  him.  She  awoke  in  the  morning  with  the  dim 
sense  of  something  wrong,  something  terrible  impending. 

As  summer  drew  near,  Herne  Bay  found  other  interests 
than  George's  arrest.  It  was  a  nine  days'  wonder,  soon 
talked  threadbare.  Out  of  sight,  in  gaol  at  Canterbury 
and  Maidstone,  he  was  out  of  mind,  except  when,  for  a 
day  or  two,  his  appearance  at  the  Sessions  was  discussed. 
John  and  Bess  could  not  forget.  The  skeleton  was  in  their 
cupboard,  locked  away  but  not  forgotten;  in  the  back- 
ground of  their  thoughts,  on  blustering  wild  March  nights 
when  the  wind  rattled  the  door-frames  and  lattices,  on 
balmy  spring  and  summer  mornings  when  the  sun  laughed 
again  on  the  sea  and  poppies  flamed  among  the  ripening 
corn,  was  the  prison  cell  where,  in  cold,  in  heat,  shut  out 
from  the  freedom  which  he  had  loved  so  passionately, 
George  waited  for  his  trial. 


356  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

As  the  time  for  this  drew  near,  a  new  and  alarming 
development  took  place  in  John's  inner  life.  His  resent- 
ment had  long  cooled,  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  keep  it  at 
white-heat;  and  now  his  conscience,  which  had  pricked 
him  chiefly  hitherto  about  the  secret  hidden  from  his  wife, 
grew  more  and  more  accusing  at  the  thought  of  his  brother's 
fate.  He  tried  to  stamp  out  disquietude,  and  assured  him- 
self by  a  hundred  specious  reasons  that  it  was  his  duty 
rather  to  keep  silence  than  to  speak.  But  he  knew,  and 
could  not  disguise  the  knowledge,  that  soon  it  would  be 
impossible  to  silence  the  insistent  voice. 

Day  by  day,  week  by  week,  very  gradually,  uneasiness 
formed  itself  into  a  conviction.  He  had  been  little  given 
to  introspection,  and  now  he  looked  into  his  heart,  night 
and  day,  with  surprise  and  irritation — an  irritation  that 
reflected  itself  a  little  in  his  outer  bearing.  He  tried  to 
strengthen  his  resistance  by  reflecting  on  the  conduct  and 
lives  of  others,  who,  he  knew,  would  laugh  at  him  for  a 
fool  if  they  could  read  his  thoughts.  Unwillingly,  almost 
unconsciously,  he  found  that  every  little  incident,  every 
chance  word  overheard,  every  remembered  episode  of  boy- 
hood, was  pressed  into  service  by  this  clamorous  voice 
urging  him  to  surrender.  A  still  small  voice!  Why,  it 
was  a  herald's  clarion  at  the  gate  of  a  strong  walled  city, 
calling  to  the  stubborn  garrison. 

He  argued  with  himself  angrily,  tried  to  reason  down 
his  discomfort;  he  ascribed  it  for  a  time  to  an  illogical 
feeling  born  of  sentiment  and  early  training;  but  by  and 
by  reasons,  sufficient  to  himself,  supported  conscience. 
On  Sundays  Bess  and  he  still  went  to  Herne  Church  by 
habit — and  partly  because  each  was  afraid  to  suggest  a 
discontinuance  of  the  old  routine.  In  days  before  the  trag- 
edy, John  had  listened  placidly  enough  to  doctrines  which 
he  had  accepted  without  effort  from  his  boyhood.  He  had 
joined  lustily  in  the  hymns,  and  had  let  the  parson  rate  and 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  357 

storm  and  argue  without  any  ruffling  of  his  mind  or  stirring 
up  of  conscience.  Now  he  joined  in  the  responses  as  if  he 
were  one  of  the  stones  that  cried  "Amen"  when  Bede,  old 
and  blind,  was  deserted  by  his  audience;  but  texts,  frag- 
ments of  sermons,  passages  from  the  lives  of  patriarchs 
and  saints,  stuck  in  his  memory  and  remained  with  him. 
His  soul  seemed  like  a  magnet,  drawing  to  it  all  that  w-as 
to  its  purpose,  rejecting  all  else.  The  things  it  needed 
gravitated  towards  it.  He  tried  to  shelter  himself  by  ex- 
amining the  grounds  of  his  creed.  The  scheme  of  the  world 
had  seemed  so  simple  before  he  was  driven  to  examine 
it:  the  Bible,  God's  unerring  word;  the  fall  of  man;  the 
long  striving,  reasoning,  reproaching,  with  which  the  Crea- 
tor tried  to  bend  His  stubborn  creatures  to  His  will;  the 
whisper  through  the  ages  of  some  great  event  at  hand;  the 
coming  of  God  to  earth  at  last,  His  death  and  resurrection; 
heaven  for  those  who  accepted  the  sacrifice,  hell  for  those 
who  rejected  it.  Until  the  tragedy,  all  had  been  so  simple; 
he  had  looked  out  on  the  world  as  a  man  looks  through  a 
glass,  with  one  eye  closed,  and  through  a  narrow  circle. 
He  had  looked  out  on  it  through  blinkers — each  blinker 
the  black  cover  of  a  book.  "The  Bible  says  so,"  had  been 
his  sole  rejoinder  to  George's  arguments;  and  he  had  gen- 
erally left  all  discussion  of  these  questions  to  Stackhouse 
and  Delilah.  Now  that  he  had  begun  to  think  more  deeply, 
face  to  face  with  his  soul  and  the  world's  problems,  a  thou- 
sand difficulties  confronted  him. 

John  wrent  one  night  to  Captain  Rockett's,  and  turned 
the  subject  towards  religion.  The  Captain  had  his  own 
views,  and,  when  questioned  not  too  closely,  made  no 
secret  of  his  divergence  from  current  orthodoxy.  "Lord 
bless  you,"  he  said,  "I  doan't  believe  in  every  word  the 
parson  tells  me.  When  I  was  a  wery  young  youth,  John, 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  think  things  out  for  myself.  Seems 
to  me  the  parsons  know  less  about  some  things  than  I  do. 


358  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

'Cause  why?  They  haven't  had  no  experience  of  the  world 
like  I  have,  that's  why.  If  I  had  the  training  of  one  of 
'em,  I'd  take  him  out  into  the  world  a  bit  afore  I  let  him 
preach  to  others.  I'd  send  him  to  college;  but  I'd  clap 
him  in  a  smock  for  a  while  as  well,  and  let  him  hear  what 
labouring  men  say  and  think,  and  let  him  puzzle  a  bit 
about  sheep  and  dogs  and  oxen.  And  I'd  put  him  in  a 
ship,  and  make  him  see  the  stars  at  night — all  other  worlds, 
they  tell  us — and  see  the  great  oceans  in  storm  and  calm; 
and  hear  the  sailor  men's  talk;  and  go  foreign  to  lands 
where  millions  of  folk  doan't  believe  a  merciful  thing  that 
he's  been  brought  up  to  believe,  and  yet  live  out  their 
lives,  and  enjoy,  and  suffer,  and  die,  just  like  we  do.  Then, 
when  he's  fit  to  be  a  full-blown  parson,  he  shouldn't  just 
get  up  in  a  pulpit  and  say  what  he  likes  without  any  one 
contradicting.  'Tis  bad  for  him,  I  reckon,  and  bad  for  other 
folks.  Let  him  be  axed  questions  after  his  sermon — well, 
well,  perhaps  that'd  lead  to  quarrelling,  and  wouldn't 
answer;  but  there's  some  rare  rubbish  talked  from  these 
here  quarter  decks  o'  churches." 

"But  you  go  to  church  like  other  folk,  Cap'n  Rockett?" 
"Ay,  I  do  sometimes.  I  like  to  go  and  worship  God 
with  the  rest,  though  the  skies  and  seas  have  preached 
many  a  better  sermon  than  I've  heard  within  church  walls; 
and  the  best  sermons  of  all,  I  reckon,  are  bound  between 
hat-leather  an'  boot-soles.  The  parson  at  Herne's  a  good 
one  himself.  But  I  doan't  hold  with  half  he  says.  In 
them  Turkish  churches — mosques,  they  call  'em — folks 
have  to  take  their  shoes  off,  but  over  here  there's  a  rare 
daffy  of  parsons  who  want  you  to  take  your  heads  off  with 
your  hats.  It  makes  me  wriggle  sometimes  to  hear  'em 
thundering  out  hell-fire  at  little  children  who've  just  popped 
their  heads  into  the  world.  Nice  greeting  to  give  'em! 
Parsons  are  jolly  enough  at  the  weddings,  and  jolly  enough 
after  the  christenings — but  if  it's  true  that  God  keeps 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  359 

millions  of  poor  souls  in  fire  for  ever,  why,  we  didn't  never 
ought  to  worship  Him,  and  we  certainly  didn't  ought  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage. 
It's  too  big  a  risk.  I'm  not  afeared  about  what  God'll  do 
to  me  when  I  have  orders  to  go  foreign.  I  never  did  quite 
hold  with  Revelations,  neither.  John  had  his  notions,  and 
I've  got  mine.  I  reckon  'twill  just  be  going  into  quiet 
anchorage,  death,  in  a  port  that's  new  to  us.  I  always 
like  to  think  of  ports  in  them  other  twinkling  worlds. 
Mebbe  fancy,  but  I  like  to  think  o'  the  lights  of  other  ships 
just  gliding  in;  and  the  sun  rising  behind  green  hills  and 
trees;  and  faces  we've  known  and  loved  waiting  on  the 
quay  to  show  us  the  way  to  where  God  lives." 

"You  don't  believe  in  punishment  for  the  wicked,  then?" 
"Oh,  yes,  I  do.  Believe  it?  Why,  we  get  that  in  this 
life,  and  wery  likely  in  another.  But  I  doan't  believe  God 
punishes  us  without  any  sense  in  it,  just  for  cruelty — I 
doan't  believe  that.  He's  our  Father,  and  that's  what 
Christ  corned  to  learn  us — ay,  and  show  us.  'Tis  a  bit 
boffling  what  the  Bible  says  sometimes,  and  I  reckon  we'm 
meant  to  use  our  common  sense,  same  as  with  other  old 
ancient  records.  Not  that  God  doan't  speak  to  us  in  the 
Bible,  if  we  have  ears  to  hear.  Read  it  yourself,  John, 
and  doan't  worry  too  much  about  what  parson  tells  you." 
John  had  little  help  in  his  difficulty  from  this  talk. 
He  might  doubt  his  creed — he  began  to  doubt  it — but  no 
criticism  could  rob  the  Bible  of  its  grip  on  his  conscience 
and  inner  life.  For  generations  uncountable,  its  words, 
penned  in  spiritual  distress  and  agony,  based  on  the  ex- 
perience of  men  of  old  time,  and  wrung  from  them  by  suf- 
fering and  loneliness  and  need,  had  gone  sharper  than  any 
sword  to  human  hearts.  He  might  doubt  constructions, 
conclusions,  framed  creeds;  his  sense  of  right  answered  to 
a  thousand  remembered  passages.  He  opened  the  Book 
when  he  reached  home;  his  eyes  fell  on  the  passage 


360  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"Return  unto  thy  rest,  0  my  soul;  for  the  Lord  hath  dealt 
bountifully  with  thee." 

"Return  unto  thy  rest?"  Was  that  an  injunction  to 
surrender — to  gain  peace  of  mind  by  throwing  aside  every- 
thing, every  consideration,  but  that  which  he  knew  in  his 
own  heart  to  be  right?  Rest?  The  rest  of  a  quiet  conscience 
first,  the  long  rest  afterwards  of  death  ? 

But  he  read  on,  and  the  next  words  ran — 

"For  thou  hast  delivered  my  soul  from  death,  mine  eyes 
from  tears,  and  my  feet  from  falling.  I  will  walk  before  the 
Lord  in  the  land  of  the  living." 

What  was  he  to  do?    Oh,  what  was  he  to  do? 

In  a  few  days  now  the  Assizes  at  Maidstone  were  to  open. 
Delilah,  who  was  to  appear  as  a  witness,  started  in  a  flutter 
of  melancholy  self-importance.  John  let  her  go  alone. 
Bess  and  he  had  not  been  called  upon  to  give  evidence. 
George,  realising  his  impotence,  had  abandoned  himself 
to  the  sullen  indifference  of  despair.  He  might  call  Bess, 
but  he  knew  that  she  would  not  help  him,  and  could  not 
be  forced  to  speak.  The  law  would  not  allow  him  to  call 
on  John  for  an  account  of  his  movements  on  the  evening 
of  Huntingdon's  death.  The  toils  were  closing  round  him, 
and  even  his  hands  were  tied. 

John  still  resisted  the  voice  of  conscience.  Reason  left 
him  two  excuses  yet:  his  love  of  Bess,  and  the  fact  that 
his  intervention  could  not  save  George  from  the  gallows 
for  rick-burning,  even  if  the  charge  of  murder  were  dis- 
proved at  the  eleventh  hour.  But  a  chance  remark  of 
Captain  Rockett's  took  his  second  plea  from  him.  An- 
other rick  in  the  neighbourhood  had  been  burnt;  the 
farmer  was  a  humane  man,  and,  knowing  the  penalty, 
had  allowed  the  culprit  to  escape.  Romilly's  views  on 
the  harshness  of  the  law  had  many  sympathisers,  even 
among  men  who  suffered  most  from  the  lawlessness  of 
the  times. 


RUNNING   HORSE  INN  361 

"  If  George  had  only  burnt  the  rick,  now,"  John  overheard 
the  Captain  say  to  a  neighbour,  "he  might  find  mercy." 

The  words,  which  he  let  pass  without  comment,  gave 
a  new  turn  to  John's  thoughts.  If  the  charge  of  murder 
were  disproved,  George  might  escape.  Mrs.  Huntingdon 
would  not  willingly  prefer  the  second  charge;  and  his  long 
imprisonment  would  influence  men  in  his  favour. 

"  But  he  meant  more  than  the  burning  of  the  rick,"  John 
told  himself,  and  again  steeled  his  heart. 

After  some  anxious  days  Delilah  came  back,  tearful, 
travel-stained,  but  scarcely  able  to  contain  her  tragic  news 
until  the  door  was  closed  upon  her.  "He's — he's  found 
guilty,"  she  gasped,  and  broke  down.  But  soon  they  had 
to  listen  to  every  incident  of  her  journey  and  the  trial. 
She  told  of  the  procession  through  the  streets,  the  judges 
in  their  scarlet,  the  sheriff,  the  javelin-men,  the  trumpeters 
in  cocked  hats  and  Kentish  grey.  At  the  trial  George  had 
had  no  chance  from  the  first.  In  that  year  the  Habeas 
Corpus  Act  was  twice  suspended;  the  prisons  of  England 
were  full.  Death  was  the  penalty  for  petty  theft,  even  for 
the  malicious  cutting  of  hop-pole  or  bine.  Some  judges 
sent  men  to  their  death  after  a  few  curt  questions.  But 
George  had  had  a  fair  trial.  Lord  Ellenborough  was  on 
the  bench.  A  new  link  in  the  chain  of  circumstantial  evi- 
dence had  been  forged  against  him.  A  bowl  of  water  was 
produced  in  court,  and  in  it  was  placed  the  charred  wad 
from  the  pistol.  As  it  uncurled,  the  fragmentary  name 
and  date  were  revealed,  "Kentish  Gazette,  Canterbury, 
Februa " 

And  on  the  paper  which  the  borsholder  had  taken  from 
George's  pocket  was  the  rest — "ry  16th,  1817." 

George  had  seemed  "dazed  and  stupid-like"  when  the 
verdict  was  brought  in  and  sentence  passed. 

The  Gazette,  a  few  days  later,  told  them  that  the  execu- 
tion would  take  place  at  Penenden  Heath  within  ten  days. 


362  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

Like  an  age,  like  a  moment,  like  a  dream  set  in  all  the 
surroundings  of  the  acutest  consciousness,  the  time  of 
waiting  passed.  The  last  night  came,  too  slowly — too 
soon. 

There  was  an  excuse,  for  husband  and  wife  now,  to  re- 
veal their  sadness  and  unhappiness.  The  thoughts  of  both 
were  on  the  man  in  the  condemned  cell,  miles  away,  who 
had  seen  his  last  sunset  in  this  world  with  emotions  unut- 
terable, unfathomed  even  by  their  sympathy.  They 
scarcely  spoke,  yet  each  was  linked  in  a  common  bond  of 
grief. 

"Bess,"  said  John,  suddenly,  when  they  were  sitting  in 
the  little  parlour  after  the  scarcely-tasted  evening  meal, 
"  'tis  a  long  time  since  you  sang  anything — let's  hear  you, 
lass.  We're  alone  together.  Something — something  quiet, 
I  mean,  of  course." 

"Oh,  to-night,  John!"  cried  Bess,  almost  in  agony.  And 
then  instantly  she  repented.  "A  hymn?" 

"No — not  a  hymn,  lass.  Just  one  of  your  old  songs, 
that  you  sang  in — in  happier  days.  Sing — sing  that  song 
you  sang  the  night  after  our  picnic — you  remember." 

"Oh,  but  to-night?  If  the  neighbours  hear  me  singing 
now " 

"  'Tis  sad  enough,  if  they  do.  But  they're  all  abed. 
And  what  do  you  and  I  care  for  people's  thoughts?" 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  to  the  old 
spinet  that  George  had  tested,  and  John  had  purchased, 
in  those  glad  and  happy  days  that  seemed  so  far  away. 

A  few  uncertain  notes  tinkled  out;  then,  in  her  clear 
young  voice,  very  low  at  first,  she  began 

"Pale-cheeked,  my  lady  watched  in  doubt, 

Love  in  her  eyes  lay  hiding, 
But  roses  blushed,  and  love  rushed  out, 
When  she  saw  her  lord  come  riding, 

Riding,  riding. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  363 

"A  dinted  helm  he'd  on  his  head, 

A  shattered  lance  was  bearing, 
'  But  what  of  that? '  my  lady  said, 

'When  his  griefs  I  now  am  sharing, 

Sharing,  sharing!'  " 

John  sat  back  in  his  father's  chair,  against  the  patch- 
work cushion  which  had  been  his  wife's  first  handiwork  in 
her  new  home.  How  he  remembered  George,  buoyant, 
gay,  bright-eyed,  as  he  had  been  on  that  day  when  the 
spinet  was  bought  at  Sturry!  He  pulled  at  his  long  clay, 
and  listened  with  a  lump  in  his  throat  to  her  voice.  "  When 
she  saw  her  lord  come  riding!"  How  he  remembered  that 
day  when,  in  sun  and  wind,  they  two  had  galloped  over 
the  cliffs  to  their  new  home! 

"They  sate  them  in  the  arrased  room, 

Wine  and  good  fare  not  missing; 
'  Now  eat  and  drink,  dear  lord:  let  gloom 
Find  no  place  when  we  are  kissing, 

Kissing,  kissing!'  " 

The  house-warming  party  rose  before  him;  Captain 
Rockett  with  his  stories;  Mrs.  Gowdy,  asking  for  more 
pork,  and  disconcerting  the  whole  table  by  her  unconscious 
asides;  Mrs.  Rockett  and  her  dreams.  What  times  of  hap- 
piness as  well  as  gloom  that  room  had  seen!  When  they 
were  children — when  his  father  and  mother  were  alive — 
when  George  came  back  from  the  wars 

"  'Safe  home!'  my  lady  cried:  'Alack!' 

Sighed  he,  'my  dear  love,  yonder 

My  plighted  word  must  take  me  back, 

I  again  from  home  must  wander, 

Wander,  wander. '  " 

And  this  music — these  words — had  floated  out  on  another 
summer  evening  to  another  summer  sea — when  they  were 
all  so  happy!  He  scarcely  noticed,  lost  in  his  dreams, 


364  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

that  Bess's  voice  was  growing  dim;  her  eyes  were  glisten- 
ing in  the  candlelight. 

"  'My  word  is  pledged  to  cruel  foes, 

This  sennight  us  must  sever; 
We'll  sup  on  love  until  it  close, 
When  we  say  farewell  for  ever, 

Ever,  everl ' 

"  'Oh,  give  them  these, '  my  lady  cried, 

'  My  jewels,  the  best  outvying, 
And  I  will  pray  that  He  who  died 
Keep  you  safe  from  chains  and  dying, 

Dying,  dying. '  ' 

Ah,  what  had  she  given,  she  thought — what  jewels  of 
truth,  and  ease  of  mind — richer  than  any,  yet  not  grudged 
or  regretted! 

"He  rode  away  at  break  of  dawn; 
She,  when  the  sun  was  rosing 
The  ivory  rood,  sank  down  forlorn, 
On  her  knees  till  long  day's  closing, 

Closing,  closing. 

"  Pale-cheeked,  my  lady  watched  in  doubt, 

Love  in  her  eyes  lay  hiding, 
The  winter  passed;  the  buds  came  out, 
But  no  more  her  lord  came  riding, 

Riding " 

"Bess,  lass!" 

John  was  across  the  room  in  a  moment.  Her  face  was 
buried  in  her  hands,  her  dark  head  bowed  over  the  spinet; 
she  sobbed  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

"Doan't,  doan't,  now,  cry  like  that!  Oh,  I  oughtn't  to 
have  asked  you  to  sing  it.  I  thoft — I  thoft — there,  shut 
it  up,  lass."  His  strong  arm  was  round  her,  comforting 
her;  she  clung  to  him  like  a  frightened  child. 

"Oh,  John,  John,  the  world's  so  sad — so  sad!  I'm 
frightened  of  it." 


RUNNING    HORSE   INN  365 

"There,  there,"  he  said.  "We're  in  God's  hands,  lass, 
every  one  of  us.  Doan't  cry  now.  Come,  we'll  go  to  bed; 
the  clock's  at  eleven.  All  the  world's  asleep.  We'll  go  to 
bed,  and  be  alone  together,  you  and  me,  in  the  darkness." 

"Yes,  let's  go  to  bed,  John  dear." 

They  went  up  the  creaking  stairs,  the  rushlight  casting 
their  shadows  on  the  panelled  walls.  Hand  in  hand,  like 
little  children  (what  are  we  all  but  that,  in  our  ignorance, 
and  helplessness,  and  need?),  they  stood  at  the  window 
for  a  minute,  looking  out  into  the  night.  The  sea,  vast 
and  sad — the  sea  that  has  watched  so  many,  many  gene- 
rations come  and  go — lay  before  them,  unsleeping.  Bess 
shivered,  and,  with  a  sudden  movement,  pulled-to  the 
curtains,  shutting  out  night,  and  stars,  and  sea — all  that 
reminded  of  man's  mortality,  and  a  universe  indifferent 
and  unchanging. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

IF  one  could  only  shut  out  thought  as  easily,  closing  some 
curtain  of  the  mind!  Bess  could  not  sleep.  Only  a 
few  short  hours  of  a  summer  night  lay  between  George  and 
death.  Each  tick  of  the  clock,  each  crash  of  breaking 
seas  along  the  coast,  reminded  her  of  the  inexorable  dawn. 
He  was  alive  now;  when  darkness  fell  again,  he  would  lie 
with  the  uncounted  dead — and  through  her  silence.  Was 
he  sleeping?  She  had  heard  that  men  slept  in  the  con- 
demned cell  soundly  enough.  Or  was  he,  too,  awake,  think- 
ing of  the  past — dreading  the  moment  when  the  footsteps 
of  death  would  draw  near  the  door?  She  wondered  whether 
the  knowledge  that  all  was  over  would  come  to  her  as  a 
relief,  or  would  prove  the  end  of  all  happiness  to  John 
and  to  herself.  She  was  frightened. 

And  then,  with  the  silence,  came  another  fear.  Why 
had  John  asked  for  that  song?  Was  there  a  significance  in 
the  request,  in  his  tenderness  that  night,  which  she  had 
not  guessed?  She  had  broken  down  from  a  crushing  sense 
of  the  suffering,  the  sorrow,  the  terror  of  the  world.  But 
the  words  of  the  song  cried  out  now  with  a  new  meaning. 
At  the  eleventh  hour,  did  he  mean  to  surrender  himself— 
to  go  away — to  try  to  save  his  brother?  The  thought, 
the  possibility,  the  interpretation  caught  her  suddenly, 
half  choking  her:  it  was  like  violent  hands  clutching  her 
throat;  she  was  put  to  it  to  hide  her  agitation — indeed, 
she  stirred  so  sharply  that  John  asked  the  cause.  "  Noth- 
ing, dear,"  she  said,  and  lay  still,  thinking,  calculating, 
wondering.  How  long  would  it  take  to  reach  Maidstone? 
Oh,  it  was  absurd.  But  how  long?  The  execution  was  to 
be  at  nine.  Surely,  there  would  be  no  time!  Again  and 
again  she  told  herself  that  overwrought  nerves  had  conjured 

366 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  367 

up  this  new  terror,  that  there  was  no  real  cause  for  fear; 
yet  now  her  one  anxiety  was  to  keep  awake  until  all  risk 
was  passed.  Her  eyes  were  growing  heavy-lidded — but 
she  must  keep  awake. 

"Bess,  are  you  asleep,  dear?" 

"  No,  John  dear." 

That  was  at  one. 

The  clock  below  ticked  on  and  on,  ticking  out  the  last 
hours  of  a  life. 

An  hour  or  so  later  he  asked  again,  very  softly. 

"No,  dear."     The  answer  was  drowsy  now. 

"Try  to  get  to  sleep,  my  darling,"  he  whispered,  kissing 
her.  "Good-night,  again.  Doan't  worry,  lass;  'tis  no  use 
worrying." 

The  monotonous  ticking  of  the  clock,  the  dreamy  mur- 
mur of  the  sea,  did  their  work.  Her  last  waking  thought 
was  that  it  must  surely  be  too  late.  When  John  whispered 
next,  there  was  no  answer. 

He  disengaged  her  arm,  very  gently,  and  sat  up  in  bed. 
She  was  asleep — sound  asleep — breathing  like  a  child, 
though  once  a  little  fretful  sigh,  like  a  child's,  came  from 
her  partly  opened  lips. 

The  cold,  grey  light  preceding  dawn  showed  through  a 
tiny  line  left  uncovered  by  blind  and  curtain.  He  got  out 
of  bed  noiselessly,  and  pulled  the  curtains  an  inch  or  two 
apart.  The  window  framed  a  sea-scape  strange  and  wan 
and  with  a  look  of  brooding  death.  Filmy  mist  screened 
the  sky  and  the  horizon,  like  a  curtain;  nearer  at  hand, 
the  sea  lay  almost  motionless,  and  the  strangest  colour — 
pale,  cloudy  green,  like  the  green  of  bottle-glass  smoothed 
by  many  tides.  Against  it,  the  hulls  and  masts  of  boats 
were  ink-black. 

He  crept  to  the  bed,  and,  scarcely  breathing,  watched 
the  sleeping  girl.  She  looked  very  young  in  sleep.  Her 
dark  hair  lay  like  a  cloud  on  the  pillow;  the  long  lashes 


368  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

swept  cheeks  soft  as  down;  her  nightgown,  slightly  open, 
showed  a  glimpse  of  dimpled  throat.  One  hand,  limp  on 
the  bed-clothes  as  it  had  fallen  when  he  moved  it  from  his 
arm,  showed  his  ring  glimmering  faintly  on  the  wedding 
finger — the  ring  that  had  bound  them,  for  weal  or  woe, 
in  sorrow  or  gladness,  till  death.  Dear  little  lass!  Loyal, 
and  unselfish,  and  uncomplaining  through  all  their  trouble 
— steel-true  through  all!  His  eyes  swam  with  tears;  a 
long,  last  look,  and,  taking  his  clothes  from  the  rush  chair 
beside  the  bed,  John  opened  the  door  quietly,  and  went 
out. 

He  dressed  downstairs,  fearing  lest  his  movements  in 
the  room  might  wake  her.  Then  he  took  some  milk  and 
rum  for  breakfast  from  closet  and  bar,  and  got  out  ink 
and  pens  and  paper  from  the  press  in  the  back  parlour. 
He  sat  for  a  long  time,  trying  to  pen  a  message.  He  could 
scarcely  see  the  signs  made  by  his  quill;  but  at  last  the 
task  was  finished. 

"My  own  Darling,"  he  wrote,  "I  have  gone  to  Maid- 
stone.  George  did  not  kill  your  father.  I  shot  him,  acci- 
dentally, trying  to  shoot  the  dog.  I  hope  to  make  them 
believe  it  was  an  accident.  If  not,  we  must  meet  again 
in  a  world  where  there's  less  sorrow  and  less  tears  than 
here,  and  no  more  partings.  Oh,  my  darling!  don't  grieve 
very  much.  Remember  our  happy  days;  no  one  can  take 
them  away.  God  bless  you  for  ever  and  ever,  my  dearest. 

"JOHN." 

He  finished  it,  in  his  great,  round,  schoolboy  hand; 
folded  and  addressed  it;  and  placed  it  on  the  spinet. 
Then,  carrying  his  boots  in  his  hand,  he  opened  the  door, 
and  went  out.  The  morning  air  was  keen.  Very  distinctly 
now,  in  the  silent  world,  sounded  the  murmur  of  the  sea. 

John  unlocked  the  stable  door,  and,  taking  an  old  lant- 
horn  from  its  nail,  lit  the  stump  of  candle.  The  flicker- 
ing light  cast  the  shadow  of  Blossom's  head  and  sharply 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  369 

pricked  ears  on  the  whitewashed  wall.  She  nuzzled  to  him, 
surprised  and  delighted  at  the  early  visit.  He  gave  her 
a  couple  of  handfuls  of  corn  and  some  hay-chaff  for  her 
long  journey,  and  then  led  her  out,  very  slowly,  to  the 
back  of  the  inn,  where  he  mounted  her. 

"Now,  Blossom,  for  our  saddest  journey  and  our  last," 
he  muttered. 

He  came  out  at  last  on  the  cliff  in  the  direction  of  Hamp- 
ton, riding  at  a  brisk  pace,  because  with  every  stride,  and 
the  knowledge  of  what  each  stride  took  him  from — and  to 
— the  impulse  to  return  tempted  him  almost  beyond  bear- 
ing. He  had  plenty  of  time.  The  coastguard  station 
showed  very  white  against  the  green;  but  Hampton,  with 
its  squalid,  patched  huts  and  hovels,  the  homes  of  men  who 
perhaps  at  that  moment  were  leading  the  preventive  offi- 
cers a  chase  along  the  coast,  nestled,  black  as  a  rook's 
nest,  in  the  elbow  of  the  down.  The  mare's  hoofs  thudded 
on  the  shorter  turf;  were  swathed  and  muffled  in  long  grass, 
and  clover,  and  white  hogweed,  and  rusty  docks.  Near 
Whitstable  his  way  branched  inland.  He  stopped  to 
breathe  the  mare,  and  take  what  might  be  a  last  look  at 
the  sea  by  which  he  had  spent  his  life.  Scores  of  little 
boats,  canted  over,  were  still  dense  black  against  the  pale 
green  sea;  lights  twinkled  from  a  gun-brig  in  the  bay, 
and  their  reflections  smeared  the  oily  water.  He  heard 
her  wash  as  she  crept  round  towards  the  Medway  with 
the  fog  in  stealthy  chase;  as  he  listened,  a  shrill  call  sounded 
from  the  pipes  of  the  bos'n's  mates,  and  the  cry,  very 
clear  though  far  away,  "Larboard  watch,  ahoy!  Rouse  out 
there,  you  sleepers!"  Then  eight  bells  struck;  ding,  ding, 
ding — silvery  and  distinct. 

It  was  four  o'clock;  he  had  ample  time.  Even  while 
he  watched  the  vessel,  drawing  so  close  inshore  that  per- 
haps she  meant  to  anchor  off  Whitstable  rather  than  nego- 
tiate the  river  mouth  in  the  mist,  John  saw  the  fog  advance 
24 


370  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

over  the  face  of  the  waters,  fast  and  ominous,  as  the  dim 
wood  marching  on  Dunsinane.  He  said  good-bye  to  the 
sea  he  knew  and  loved  so  well — the  jovial  playmate,  the 
bluff  and  cheery  comrade  of  so  many  years,  the  sharer 
in  his  joy,  the  comforter  in  times  of  sorrow.  Its  salt  was 
in  his  blood,  its  strength  in  the  limbs  which  were  soon, 
perhaps,  to  hang  limply  in  death.  No  more  for  him  the 
crested  breakers,  the  coloured  pools  of  sunset — never  more 
the  sight  of  gallant  ships,  the  hearty  voices  of  seafarers. 
Yet,  even  as  he  bade  farewell  to  it  as  to  an  old  friend — 
linking  his  wife  with  every  memory  of  its  phases — he  saw 
now,  almost  for  the  first  time,  the  poignant  cruelty  of  the 
sea,  and  shuddered. 

He  turned  his  mare's  head.  "Now  for  Faversham, 
Blossom,"  he  said,  his  voice  very  strange  and  lonely  in 
the  silence  of  early  morning.  The  solitude,  the  half  dark- 
ness, the  thin  mist  like  an  outpost  from  the  advancing  fog, 
were  oppressive.  As  he  rode,  the  thud  of  hoofs  beat  time 
to  galloping  thought.  All  life's  order  and  seemliness  had 
been  rudely  torn  aside;  his  old  faith  in  God's  goodness 
had  been  sapped  by  misfortune ;  and  he  saw  the  iron  frame 
of  the  world — saw  it,  rather,  like  a  skeleton,  grim  bone 
and  grinning  skull,  under  the  fair  and  smiling  flesh.  His 
thoughts,  his  emotions,  surprised  him  as  they  could  never 
have  surprised  his  brother,  with  his  more  complex  and 
imaginative  nature.  A  thousand  incidents,  unexplainable, 
thrust  themselves  on  his  notice — things  that  a  month  or 
two  before  he  would  have  accounted  for  in  a  text,  a  set 
phrase,  or  have  set  aside  carelessly  as  mysteries  only  to 
be  solved  by  the  Creator.  He  could  not  solve  them  now— 
but  his  mind  groped  for  a  solution.  "All  things  work 
together  for  good."  How  could  this  work  for  good — how 
could  Bess  and  he  be  made  better  by  the  punishing  of  the 
innocent,  by  suffering  like  theirs?  If  God  were  all-wise  and 
all-powerful,  why  should  He  permit  such  suffering  in  His 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  371 

world?  Life  was  a  school,  they  said;  but  deserved  pun- 
ishment only  could  teach — undeserved  could  but  harden 
the  pupil,  and  fill  him  with  a  burning  sense  of  injustice. 
While  the  struggle  in  his  mind  was  going  on,  he  had  felt 
assured  that  surrender  and  submission  would  at  least  bring 
peace  of  mind.  But  he  felt  no  peace  now.  He  felt  only  a 
bitter  grudge  against  his  Maker,  who  had  overthrown  their 
happiness,  made  a  mock  of  their  wish  to  serve  Him,  caught 
them  in  this  net  of  cruel  chances,  and  forced  upon  him 
this  decision.  He  went  doggedly  on,  following  his  impulse 
to  do  right;  but  it  was  with  no  sense  of  union  with  the 
Great  Companion;  with  a  sense,  rather,  of  some  grim  and 
mocking  fate  that  forced  its  commands  upon  him,  made 
resistance  impossible,  and  then  jeered  at  the  offered 
sacrifice. 

But  he  resisted  the  impulse  to  turn  back.  His  decision 
had  been  made,  once  and  for  all;  he  rode  on  in  bitterness, 
not  even  praying  for  help,  or  relief,  or  ultimate  reward. 

The  sea-fog  dogged  the  hoofs  of  the  mare,  caught  up 
steed  and  rider,  swept  past  them,  and  enclosed  them. 
For  a  time  hedges,  bushes,  trees,  loomed  larger,  and  then 
were  blotted  out  in  a  great  veil  of  white.  It  shut  him  in 
now  alone  with  that  great  and  relentless  fate.  There 
seemed  no  one  left  in  the  world  now,  but  the  solitary  man 
hurrying  to  his  death.  Hurrying  to  death!  What  was  it, 
after  all,  but  this  ride  towards  suffering  and  the  grave — 
all  the  history  of  the  world?  He  thought  of  the  Roman 
legions  who  had  come  to  Reculver  in  their  galleys,  and 
made  their  stronghold;  of  the  Saxon  kings  who  had  held 
their  courts  there;  the  warriors  who  drank  and  jested, 
the  monks  muttering  their  prayers,  the  fair-skinned, 
bright-eyed  princesses  who  had  wandered  once  with  their 
lovers  by  the  shores  he  had  just  left.  What  was  the  aim 
of  it?  He  had  seen,  often,  relics  from  Reculver  of  those 
old  years.  A  coin,  a  toy  fashioned  for  a  moment's  sport, 


372  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

a  strap  or  buckle  from  a  garment,  lasted  longer  than  the 
owners  or  their  race. 

John  patted  Blossom's  rough  coat,  damp  with  the  mist; 
she,  too,  at  the  end  of  strenuous  labour  and  loyal  service, 
would  suffer,  and  share  her  master's  fate;  and  the  thought 
of  this  fellowship  of  man  and  beast  gave  him  a  new  sym- 
pathy. She,  too,  was  under  the  inexorable  law.  He  thought 
again  of  Bess.  How  many  years  would  it  be  before  the 
loneliness  of  the  journey's  end  lay  before  her?  She  was 
young  now.  He  fancied  the  dark  hair  whitening,  the  eyes 
becoming  dim,  the  cheeks,  now  rosy  and  dimpled,  growing 
faded  and  wrinkled,  the  lips  that  had  met  his  sucked  in 
at  last  over  toothless  gums — and  then  death.  It  seemed 
incredible;  so  senseless,  so  ineffectual,  so  blindly  cruel. 
Early  years,  all  bright  with  promise;  food,  air,  everything 
going  to  form  strength  and  beauty — then  the  gradual  de- 
cay, the  slow  undoing  of  all  that  had  been  built  up  so 
painfully.  Was  God  never  to  be  satisfied?  He  seemed 
like  an  artist  striving  after  something,  never  satisfied  with 
His  handiwork. 

Blundering  through  the  white  fog,  Blossom  brushed  her 
master's  leg  against  a  wall,  at  the  top  of  which  he  caught 
the  misty  shapes  of  tombs.  Some  village  churchyard;  and 
the  bodies  of  many  generations  of  dead  had  banked  up 
earth  to  the  very  top  of  the  wall.  The  squire  and  his 
dainty  womankind  from  the  Hall,  the  hind  from  the  hovel, 
made  the  very  paths  over  which  newcomers  passed  to  the 
recital  of  the  ancient  faith.  Yet  what  text,  what  sermon, 
what  creed,  framed  by  suffering  humanity  for  its  stay  and 
solace,  explained  this  long  succession  stretching  back, 
unnamed  and  unremembered,  into  the  very  mists  of  time? 

As  John  Kennett  rode  on  stubbornly,  the  silence,  the 
oppression  of  the  fog,  forced  on  his  notice  the  fearful  lone- 
liness and  desolation  of  death.  Here  he  was,  whole,  sound, 
warm  in  body,  strong  in  limb.  And  soon,  no  doubt,  his 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  373 

life  would  be  forced  out  of  him  by  violent  hands.  The  law 
gaped  for  him  like  the  steel  jaws  of  a  trap.  In  the  treat- 
ment of  the  criminal,  men  acted  with  the  relentlessness, 
the  unpitying  mechanism,  of  some  natural  force.  He 
foresaw  all  the  brutal  machinery  which  he  himself  would 
put  in  motion — the  machinery  which  would  not  be  satis- 
fied until  it  had  ousted  his  soul,  and  left  his  body  cold  and 
broken.  He  had  rarely  thought  of  death,  and  rarely  feared 
it.  Now  he  began  to  fear.  The  ejection  of  the  spirit,  its 
houselessness,  thrust  in  a  moment  from  the  body,  appalled 
him.  He  felt  sick.  The  instinct  in  all  men — or  nearly  all 
— to  call  for  help  to  some  Power  higher  than  themselves, 
nearly  overcame  him;  yet  he  set  his  teeth.  He  had  prayed 
before;  prayed  desperately  and  earnestly  that  some  way 
might  open  out,  and  relieve  him  of  the  necessity  for  this 
sacrifice.  Now  the  cloud  of  fog  seemed  to  shut  out  God; 
the  heavens  were  deaf;  and  his  own  obstinacy  raised  a 
barrier  even  less  penetrable.  He  realised,  in  that  lonely 
ride,  something  of  Gethsemane;  but  there  was  no  cry  for 
help.  "I'm  a  man,  I'm  a  man,"  he  muttered  to  himself, 
grappling  with  and  subduing  his  fear.  He  would  ride  on; 
he  would  not  turn  back;  he  would  carry  out  his  purpose; 
but  towards  God — if  there  were  a  God — he  felt  nothing 
but  bitterness  and  resentment. 

The  muffled  thud  of  the  old  mare's  hoofs  sounded  like 
the  drum  of  death.  But  as  he  rode,  he  became  conscious 
gradually  that  the  ground  was  softer  and  more  deeply 
rutted  beneath  them;  was  he  still  on  the  turnpike?  He 
drew  rein.  The  mare's  flanks  were  steaming  into  the 
mist;  his  breath  and  hers  were  just  visible  in  great  clouds. 
He  harked  back  a  little  way,  then  on  again.  He  was  lost, 
and  unless  the  fog  lifted  would  be  too  late. 

"If  there  were  a  God?"  Oh,  he  knew  now,  as  he  rode 
slowly  and  helplessly  this  way  and  that,  trying  to  find  his 
road.  Not  a  blind  God,  but  one  with  keen  eyes  for  the 


374  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

little  stage  on  which  His  puppets  strutted.  A  jesting, 
mocking  God;  and  even  now  there  must  be  laughter  in 
the  heavens.  It  should  have  thundered;  that  was  the 
hoarse  laughter  in  the  sky  when  the  keen  fire-darts  sped 
to  earth,  spreading  terror  and  destruction,  striking  alike 
the  barn  where  man  stores  his  bread,  the  church  where 
he  prays  and  worships.  But  this  was  a  better  jest.  Here 
were  all  so  busy  about  their  tasks;  and  the  great,  gauzy 
net  of  fog  had  been  flung  down;  and  now  they  were  grop- 
ing blindly,  and  the  roads  were  held  as  no  armies  could 
ever  hold  them;  and  on  the  seas  the  great  ships  blundered 
to  their  ruin.  O  terrible  Omnipotence,  using  worlds  as  play- 
things! John  had  given  up  all  to  go;  he  had  left  the  mes- 
sage which  would  tell  Bess  of  his  deed;  and  now  this  veil  of 
mist,  silent,  intangible,  robbed  him  of  the  precious  minutes. 

Quite  suddenly,  the  white  walls  of  a  cottage  loomed 
before  him;  a  blurred  light  showed  from  a  window.  He 
dismounted,  and  rapped  at  the  door.  After  an  impatient 
wait,  slow  steps  approached  down  the  tiled  passage;  a 
man  opened,  coughing  and  wheezing,  and  shading  still 
sleepy  eyes  with  his  hand. 

"Am  I  on  the  road  to  Faversham?" 

"Faversham?  No,  that  you  bain't,  Maister.  You'm  two 
mile  out  of  your  road." 

He  obtained  explicit  directions;  the  lane  down  which 
he  had  travelled  branched  from  the  main  road;  he  would 
have  to  retrace  his  way.  He  thanked  the  man  abruptly, 
and,  before  his  laboured  directions  were  finished,  clattered 
off  again,  keeping  close  to  the  left  side  of  the  lane.  At  last 
the  firm  main  road  was  under  the  hoofs  again;  but  much 
time  had  been  lost.  The  deflection,  at  least,  had  sent  his 
thoughts  into  another  channel.  If  he  were  too  late!  He 
thrust  aside  the  temptation  with  scorn  at  his  own  weak- 
ness. At  least,  it  should  be  no  fault  of  his  if  the  gallows 
were  not  reached  in  time. 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  375 

Close  to  Faversham,  they  emerged  from  the  mist,  and 
left  it  behind  them  like  a  wall.  John  looked  at  his  watch. 
Six  o'clock!  Three  hours  more — and  only  thirteen  miles 
covered.  Still,  they  could  do  it — they  must  do  it.  But  he 
would  have  to  nurse  the  old  mare's  strength.  They  passed 
between  corn-fields  into  the  town;  the  early  sun  shone 
on  golden  wheat;  at  Cooksditch  Farm,  just  outside  Faver- 
sham, labourers  were  beginning  the  long  day's  work.  Peo- 
ple were  astir,  too,  in  the  street;  women  were  scrubbing 
down  their  doorsteps,  and  shaking  mats  and  cloths;  and 
from  a  tiny  window  set  in  the  blank  wall  of  a  fifteenth- 
century  house,  a  little  child  waved  good-morning  to  the 
horseman.  John  got  a  drink  of  water  and  a  handful  of 
corn  for  Blossom  at  an  inn  near  the  Guildhall,  and  they 
clattered  off  again,  under  the  eaves  of  the  ancient  houses, 
towards  Ospringe.  There  was  blue  sky  now;  the  birds 
sang  overhead;  in  the  fields  were  men  and  horses,  doing 
their  appointed  tasks  as  leisurely  as  quiet  Nature  herself, 
so  slow  and  sure  in  all  her  operations.  Here  sheep  dotted 
the  meadows;  here  were  green-gladed  woods;  they  passed 
long  stretches  of  brown-gold  corn,  and  hedges  bright  with 
flowers;  old  trees  cast  chequers  of  green  and  yellow  sun- 
light on  the  road.  How  beautiful  this  world  was  that  he 
was  leaving!  As  the  crushing  sorrow  of  it  all  had  oppressed 
him,  so  now  its  very  joyousness  made  death  bitter.  The 
clean,  pure  morning  air,  the  happy  morning  faces,  the  good- 
natured  greetings,  the  many  peaceful  country  scenes — 
here  some  cattle  hock-deep  in  a  sleepy  pool,  there  a  group 
of  children  making  flower  garlands  and  daisy  chains,  and 
shouting  and  laughing  with  delight — all  these  awoke  old 
and  happy  memories.  They  were  to  be  shut  out — perhaps 
— probably — for  ever.  By  night — long  before  night — 
stone  walls  and  bars  and  manacles  would  keep  him  from 
the  wide  summer  world,  grim  and  unpitying  faces  would 
surround  him,  and  those  who  spoke  to  him  would  treat 


376  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

him  no  longer  as  a  fellow-man,  but  as  a  beast  to  be  penned 
up,  and  examined,  and  led  at  last,  after  so  many  weeks 
of  safeguarding  and  feeding,  to  the  slaughter. 

One  after  another,  the  milestones  sped  by.  A  coach 
passed  him,  crowded  with  jovial  occupants  happy  as  school- 
boys in  the  delightful  morning;  the  driver  flung  him  a 
jest  at  his  set  face  and  downcast  looks.  He  cast  his  eyes 
neither  to  right  nor  left  now,  save  when  another  mile  was 
nearly  due.  He  had  to  map  out  his  time.  So  much  in 
hand  for  Doddington;  so  much  for  Hollingbourne;  he 
must  be  at  Bearsted  at  a  quarter-past  eight  to  give  him 
ample  time  to  reach  Penenden  Heath  and  run  no  risk  of 
failure.  He  meant  his  journey  and  his  long  night-agony 
to  end  in  no  fiasco.  He  must  make  sure. 

But  old  Blossom,  bearing  him  gallantly  and  bravely  as 
if  they  were  on  one  of  their  old  and  happy  journeys,  was 
beginning  to  feel  the  strain.  He  muttered  words  of  encour- 
agement, and  she  pricked  up  her  ears  and  quickened  her 
stride  for  a  few  yards,  but  only  to  fall  back  into  a  more 
laboured  pace.  His  weight,  the  burden  of  her  years,  the 
long  and  rapid  ride,  were  telling  on  her  at  last.  They 
were  late  in  Doddington.  On  the  next  three  miles  he  lost 
five  precious  minutes.  Just  beyond  the  milestone  a  drove 
of  sheep  blocked  the  road;  the  men  in  charge  were  in  no 
hurry;  he  had  to  draw  rein,  and  wait  fuming  for  a  minute, 
then  pick  his  way  slowly  through.  Every  one  he  met  had 
the  long  day  and  untold  years  before  them;  he  alone  in 
the  world  seemed  to  be  hurrying,  to  be  aware  of  the  pre- 
ciousness  of  time.  Not  until  he  reached  Hollingbourne 
was  he  conscious  of  the  possibility  of  failure.  The  minutes 
flew  so  swiftly,  so  inexorably;  the  miles  seemed  intermin- 
able. On,  on!  His  brain  was  in  a  whirl  of  hurry.  Hurry, 
hurry!  Under  his  thoughts  that  refrain  seemed  like  a 
singing  voice,  set  to  the  dull  thud,  thud  of  the  hoofs.  A 
man  was  driving  a  cow  along  the  highroad — an  old  coun- 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  377 

try  man,  russet-faced  like  a  shrivelled  apple;  he  had  a  long, 
peeled  switch,  and  walked  placidly  behind  his  beast,  not 
troubling  to  hasten  her;  as  she  stopped  to  graze  by  the 
roadside,  he  waited;  he  wandered  after  her,  at  a  few  yards' 
interval,  from  one  side  of  the  road  to  the  other,  and  only 
muttered  a  half-reproachful  "Gee  along,  Jemima,"  when 
her  stoppages  grew  too  protracted  even  for  his  patience. 

The  man  curled  a  hand  round  his  ear,  and  the  question 
was  repeated. 

"Foive  mile,  a  good  foive  mile,  Maister.  But  what  part 
of  Maidstone?" 

"Penenden  Heath." 

"Penenden?     Be  you  going  to  the  hanging?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"I  beared  there  were  to  be  one.  My  wig!  When  I  was 
a  boy,  now,  I'd  ha'  gone,  too;  I  was  a  rare  fellow  for  such 
sights.  I  wouldn't  go  acrost  the  road  now  to  see  such  a 
thing,  though.  Penenden!  Well,  I  reckon  now " 

"Do  I  go  through  the  town?    Is  there  a  shorter  way?" 

"I  be  thinking,  Maister,"  said  the  man,  reprovingly. 
"Let  me  see.  No,  you  needn't — but  there  bain't  no  good 
hurrying;  you'll " 

John,  with  a  muttered  exclamation  of  impatience,  shot 
past  him. 

"  Bain't  so  fur  to  Penenden,"  the  man  shouted  after  him, 
"but  if  you  think  you'll  see  the  hanging,  you'll  be  disap- 
pointed. You'll  never  get  there  in  time — not  on  that 
mare,  you  won't." 

Another  mile:  Blossom  was  stumbling,  swaying — in 
vain  the  gallant  animal  tried  to  answer  to  her  master's 
voice.  John  tore  a  switch  from  an  overhanging  ash.  If 
he  had  to  kill  her — loyal  and  trusty  friend  as  she  had  been 
— he  must  reach  the  Heath  in  time.  She  winced  under 
the  first  blow,  and  glanced  back  reproachfully;  at  the 
second  she  dashed  forward  madly.  "On,  Blossom,  on, 


378  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

good  lass,"  John  hissed  between  his  teeth.  The  road  seemed 
to  fly  under  the  hoofs.  Stones  shot  up;  one  struck  his 
hand  and  cut  it.  Three  miles  now.  They  had  covered 
the  last  in  better  time.  He  rained  down  blows,  though 
each  went  to  his  own  heart.  He  dragged  his  watch  from 
his  fob,  nearly  unseating  himself  in  the  effort.  Eighteen 
minutes!  She  could  never  do  it. 

"She  must!  she  must!"  he  muttered,  and  showered  down 
blows  with  switch  and  fist,  that  pain  and  terror  might  add 
speed  to  her  goodwill.  He  felt  her  weary  limbs  spring 
beneath  her;  the  road  tore  under  them.  Ah!  that  was 
better;  trees,  cottages,  grassy  slopes  where  sheep  nibbled 
among  gnarled  roots  high  above  the  shaded  road,  flew 
past.  Bearsted  was  in  sight.  They  would  do  it — they 
could  just  do  it! 

And  then,  without  warning,  Blossom  stumbled,  tried 
to  recover,  and  pitched  headlong  forward. 

John  was  clear  of  the  saddle  in  an  instant.  Good  God, 
if  she  failed  him  now,  so  close  to  their  goal! 

He  bent  over  her.  They  were  just  outside  the  village; 
she  had  fallen  by  the  side  of  a  little  coppice,  close  to  a 
gate  that  hung  loose  on  its  hinges.  "Up,  old  lady!"  he 
cried,  and  tried  to  drag  her  up  in  vain.  She  turned  re- 
proaching eyes,  fast  glazing,  upon  him — eyes  so  wistful 
and  pathetic.  This  was  the  end  of  her  long  and  faithful 
service;  this  the  ultimate  reward.  Quite  suddenly  she 
rolled  over  on  her  back;  he  had  barely  time  to  spring 
aside.  Was  it  an  effort,  in  last  semi-consciousness,  to  carry 
out  her  master's  will  even  in  death?  Her  limbs  began  to 
move  in  the  motion  of  galloping;  at  each  jerked  effort 
the  gate  was  struck  by  the  hoofs,  and  flung  backward 
and  forward,  to  meet  them  again  and  be  repulsed.  Faster, 
faster — was  it  that  memories  of  old  journeys  came  to  her? 
Did  she  fancy  that  the  summer  and  winter  roads  of  old 
years  were  under  her  again;  down,  and  meadow,  and 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  379 

turnpike,  and  rutted  lane?  John  watched  her,  half  fasci- 
nated, and  helpless.  Was  she  drawing,  in  imagination, 
his  mother  on  her  drives  to  Blean  woods;  or  riding  back 
with  him  and  his  young  bride  from  Whitstable;  or  what 
fancied  miles  were  under  those  hoofs  beating  the  air, 
rattling  the  ash-grey  gate?  Faster,  faster,  faster,  grew 
the  mad  gallop.  Faster,  faster 

It  stopped.  Stopped  so  suddenly  and  abruptly  that 
silence  fell  almost  like  a  blow.  In  place  of  that  mad  rush 
and  hurry,  the  rattle  of  the  gate,  the  sense  of  terrible, 
urgent  haste — in  place  of  all  these  were  left  the  lonely 
road,  the  whispering  leaves,  the  bleat  of  a  sheep  in  a 
near  meadow.  Blossom  lay  on  her  side,  her  legs  thrust 
out,  her  mouth  flecked  with  foam,  her  eyes  glazed  and 
dead. 

John  put  a  hand  very  tenderly  on  the  rough,  wet  coat. 
Then  he  sprang  to  his  feet.  It  was  twelve  minutes  to  nine ; 
he  had  over  two  miles  to  cover.  He  ran  forward  to  the 
village.  Ancient,  overhanging,  clay-daubed  cottages  were 
to  his  left;  beyond  them  was  the  village  green,  with  its 
ivy-mantled  church,  and  an  inn,  the  White  Horse,  at  the 
farther  side.  The  village  was  practically  deserted;  the 
hanging  had  drawn  away  the  people.  Where  could  he 
get  another  horse ?  He  entered  the  stable  of  the  inn;  there 
was  no  one  about,  and  no  horses  were  in  the  stalls.  A 
few  steps,  of  chipped  and  worn  stone,  led  up  into  the  house, 
and  he  sprang  up  them,  shouting,  and  entered  a  flagged 
room.  No  one  was  below.  A  slatternly  woman,  with  her 
sleeves  rolled  above  the  elbows,  came  to  the  head  of  the 
stairs. 

"I  want  a  horse!"  cried  John,  almost  desperate.  "A 
horse — at  once!  Is  there  one  in  the  village  to  be  had?" 

"There's  not  one  in  here,  if  that's  what  you  mean," 
said  the  woman,  with  evident  disapproval. 

"Where  can  I  get  one  ?    I  want  to  ride  to  Penenden " 


380  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

"Then  I'll  not  help  you.  Making  a  holerday  of  seeing 
a  poor  fellow-mortal  killed!  You're  all  alike.  Here's 
my  husband  leaving  everything  to  me,  while " 

John  sprang  out  of  the  house  and  down  the  steps. 
While  he  explained,  while  he  found  the  horse  and  haggled 
about  it  and  mounted  it,  the  precious  minutes  would  be 
gone.  He  had  eleven  now.  He  was  stiff  and  sore  after 
his  long  ride,  but  there  was  still  a  chance.  Perhaps  they 
would  be  late,  too.  There  was  sure  to  be  a  few  minutes' 
delay.  He  had  been  a  good  runner  as  a  lad,  and  had  won 
a  prize  years  back  in  one  of  the  running  matches  between 
rival  villages  which  were  popular  at  that  time  in  Kent. 
He  raced  on,  the  ground  flying  beneath  him,  seeming  to 
rise  against  him;  trees  and  fields  rushed  past.  Up  a  heart- 
breaking hill,  down  again;  some  late-comers  were  hurry- 
ing in  front  of  him;  he  caught  them  up  and  passed  them; 
again  the  road  rose  steeply.  He  stumbled,  staggered  on, 
his  head  almost  bursting,  his  lungs  empty,  his  limbs  aching 
and  trembling,  his  knees  bending  beneath  his  weight. 

Here  was  the  Heath  I 

Dark  belts  of  pine  and  fir  skirted  it  on  the  left.  Towards 
the  south  of  the  great  expanse  of  rough  grass  and  scrub — 
thirty  acres  of  it  then — a  black  crowd,  noisy,  swaying, 
swearing,  discussing  in  a  loud  hum  of  voices,  thronged 
round  the  gallows.  It  was  set  on  rising  ground;  he  saw 
the  beam  and  rope  outlined  against  the  clear  summer  sky. 
A  cart  was  moving  slowly  towards  it;  from  the  higher 
ground  over  which  he  hurried  he  could  see  the  javelin- 
men  clearing  a  way  with  their  long  halberds;  Kentish 
grey  coats,  with  red  collars  and  white  metal  buttons, 
mingled  with  the  darker  costumes  of  the  crowd.  A  cluster 
of  men  in  and  round  the  cart  blotted  out  the  prisoner. 
Chaplain,  gaoler,  officials  in  cocked  hats  and  stove-pipe 
hats,  men  with  long  black  wands;  he  saw  all  very  dis- 
tinctly in  the  crisis  of  the  moment.  He  was  in  time,  then 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  381 

— if  only  he  could  make  them  hear.  He  staggered  forward, 
trying  to  find  breath  enough  to  shout. 

But  at  that  moment  a  great  hush  fell  on  the  crowd. 
High  above  the  rest,  with  the  chaplain  and  gaoler  beside 
him,  rose  the  figure  of  his  brother.  George's  face  was 
pale,  but  his  lips  were  set  and  sullen.  He  glanced  round 
defiantly.  The  early  morning  sun  was  full  on  his  face. 
The  mob  waited  breathlessly.  One  of  the  men  near  had 
evidently  just  said  something  to  the  prisoner.  George 
glanced  round.  A  bandage  was  ready  in  the  executioner's 
hand  to  blot  out  the  last  sight  of  the  world  from  his  eyes. 
He  waved  it  aside.  He  was  going  to  speak.  John,  still 
stumbling  on,  saw  in  that  face,  marked  out  so  distinctly, 
high  above  the  rest,  and  lit  by  the  glaring  sun,  a  look  of 
bitter  and  vindictive  hate.  But  at  that  instant,  glancing 
over  the  fair  scene  that  would  so  soon  be  shut  out  for  ever, 
George's  eyes  met  his  brother's. 

A  look  of  incredulity  passed  over  his  face  for  a  second, 
then  it  changed,  seeming  to  catch  a  little  of  the  glory  of 
the  sunshine.  It  seemed  transfigured,  passing  instantly 
from  venomous  hatred  of  the  world  to  a  consciousness 
of  triumph  and  final  victory.  He  flung  back  his  head 
proudly.  John  did  not  understand.  He  knew  that  his 
brother  had  seen  him,  and  believed  that  in  another  moment 
he  would  direct  all  eyes  towards  the  gasping  man  striving 
to  reach  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd.  Was  the  last  satis- 
faction of  self-surrender  to  be  taken  from  him?  Before 
he  could  speak  voluntarily,  was  George  to  point  him  out 
and  tax  him  with  the  crime?  He  must  be  first.  John 
tried  to  shout.  No  words  came.  The  long  run  had  left 
him  capable  only  of  his  shambling,  staggering  movement, 
ever  forward,  but  incapable  of  speech.  Then,  incredulous, 
he  saw  his  brother  make  a  signal — nod  to  the  executioner. 
The  crowd  strained  and  swayed  forward;  men  at  the 
rear  rose  on  tiptoe  to  see. 


382  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

"Save  him!  Stop,  stop!"  John  gasped  out,  with  a 
sudden  enlightenment.  He  was  on  lower  ground  now; 
the  figure  of  his  brother  was  blotted  out.  A  long  shudder- 
ing gasp  passed  through  the  crowd.  .  .  . 

When  it  opened,  and  broke  away,  he  saw  the  dangling, 
spinning  body,  and  buried  his  head  in  his  hands.  Too 
late!  Too  late! 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

IT  was  nearly  seven  when  Bess  woke  from  troubled 
dreams.  She  felt  for  her  husband;  he  was  not  beside 
her;  the  room  was  very  dark.  Still  half-asleep,  she  got 
out  of  bed,  and  drew  aside  the  blind  to  look  at  the  new 
day.  The  white  curtain  of  fog  veiled  the  familiar  sight  of 
foreshore  and  sea.  At  first  she  was  vaguely  conscious 
only  of  something  wrong  and  unhappy.  Delilah  was  astir; 
her  heavy  tread  shook  the  ceiling  overhead.  The  recollec- 
tion that  this  was  the  day  so  long  looked  forward  to  and 
dreaded — the  day  when  her  fatal  secret  was  sending  George 
to  death — came  to  her  suddenly  with  appalling  and  over- 
whelming force. 

She  remembered  that  she  had  kept  awake  until  the  last 
moment  which,  she  thought,  would  allow  John  to  reach 
Maidstone  in  time.  She  felt  convinced  that  he  was  below, 
fancied,  indeed,  that  she  could  hear  him  in  the  yard. 
He  often  rose  before  her  and  went  downstairs  without 
awaking  her.  She  dressed  hurriedly,  and  then  flung  her- 
self on  her  knees  beside  the  bed.  As  she  prayed,  she  felt 
that  her  prayers  could  scarcely  reach  the  ears  of  God. 
She  could  not  repent.  But  she  prayed  desperately,  almost 
frantically,  for  the  man  whose  last  hours  were  speeding. 
And  her  husband  and  she  wanted  help,  too — wanted  it 
so  badly,  since  they  had  bought  their  own  happiness  at 
the  price  of  another's  life. 

Their  own  happiness?  Could  she — could  John — ever 
hope  for  that  again?  Or  would  the  shadowy  form  of  their 
brother,  murdered  to  all  intents  by  them,  rise  between 
them — haunt  them  in  gloom  and  sunshine — ever  reproach- 
ing them  with  sad  and  resentful  eyes?  Oh,  how  miserable 
she  was!  John's  silence  had  not  lessened  her  love;  it 

383 


384  RUNNING  HORSE   INN 

had  filled  her  with  that  fierce,  maternal,  protecting  pity; 
but  she  could  look  up  to  him  and  respect  him  and  honour 
him  as  she  had  done  no  longer.  Her  idol  had  feet  of  clay 
— feet  of  clay. 

She  went  downstairs  at  last.  Delilah  was  clattering 
about  the  kitchen  with  mop  and  pail. 

"Where's  your  master,  Delilah?"    she  asked. 

"I  reckon  he's  in  the  yard,  mum,"  said  'Lilah,  dismally. 
"The  door's  unlocked,  so  he's  gone  out." 

Bess  waited  a  second  or  two,  then  went  to  the  stable. 
Her  heart  leapt  as  she  saw  that  Blossom  was  not  in  the  stall. 

She  ran  back  again,  and  then  her  eyes  fell  on  the  little 
note.  Bess  snatched  it  up  and  read  it  with  burning  eyes. 
A  little  gasping  cry  escaped  her. 

"What  is  it,  mum?" 

"Nothing,  'Lilah,  nothing,"  she  almost  whispered. 
Oh,  she  must  keep  the  secret  still.  She  must  keep  it  still 
— and  save  him. 

He  had  gone  then — gone  at  the  eleventh  hour,  to  save 
his  brother!  It  must  have  been  directly  after  she  had 
fallen  asleep.  What  significance  now  in  that  song  she 
had  sung  unconsciously;  what  ground  for  her  fears;  what 
folly  hers,  to  sleep  before  all  risk  was  over!  She  hoped, 
even  now,  that  he  had  started  too  late.  But  she  knew 
John  better  than  that.  He  had  made  up  his  mind,  and, 
having  done  so,  would  run  no  risk  of  failure. 

She  crumpled  up  the  note  in  her  hand.  "It's — it's 
a  letter  from  your  master,  'Lilah,"  she  said.  "He's  gone 
out  for  the  day,  and  I'm — I'm  to  meet  him  at  once.  I 
must  start  now " 

"But  not  before  breakfast,  mum?  You  must  have 
that  first.  You  can't  go  without  bite  or  drink, "  cried  the 
astonished  maid. 

"  No,  I'm  going  to — well,  pour  out  a  glass  of  milk,  'Lilah, 
and  cut  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter  while  I  put  my  hat  on. " 


RUNNING  HORSE   INN  385 

She  went  upstairs,  her  mind  a  tangled  maze  of  thought. 
What  could  she  do?  What  was  she  to  do?  The  need  for 
secrecy  was  so  terrible.  Even  while  she  was  deciding, 
even  in  these  few  lost  minutes,  her  husband  was  so  much 
farther  from  her — so  much  nearer  to  his  death.  Tom 
Dodson,  their  brother-in-law  at  Whitstable,  must  help 
her.  She  would  run  there,  run  all  the  way — love  would 
give  her  speed — and  borrow  his  fast  little  cob,  and  ride  it, 
spur  it,  along  the  roads  to  Maidstone,  in  the  hope  that 
Blossom  might  be  overtaken.  She  ran  downstairs  again. 
Oh,  was  there  still  a  chance?  She  must  do  something; 
even  if  she  failed,  she  must  do  something;  if  she  were  too 
late,  she  could  still  be  near  the  prison  when  they  put  John 
in  his  brother's  place.  In  the  taproom,  in  the  parlour,  a 
hundred  things  cried  out  to  her  of  their  married  life  so 
cruelly  broken.  There  were  his  slippers,  as  he  had  left 
them;  there  the  dregs  in  the  glass  that  he  had  last  drunk 
from;  and  on  the  spinet  in  the  parlour  his  pipe  rested 
where  he  had  set  it  down  the  night  before,  with  the  caked 
ash  still  in  the  bowl.  She  drank,  and  left  the  bread  untasted. 

White  mist  shut  out  everything  now.  Without  listen- 
ing to  Delilah's  protests  and  exclamations  of  surprise,  she 
ran  out  of  the  inn.  In  five  yards  the  mist  closed  round 
her.  Thank  God  for  that!  It  might  delay  him;  it  might 
confuse  his  way;  it  would  keep  her  screened  from  curious 
eyes.  She  could  explain  to  Delilah  afterwards;  she  could 
invent  some  story;  oh,  anything,  everything  might  be 
put  right,  if  only  she  were  in  time!  Running  like  the 
wind,  she  left  the  shingled  path,  climbed  the  slope,  passed 
the  white- walled  coastguard  house;  faster  than  ever  she 
had  raced  in  childhood,  when,  after  her  bathe,  the  boys 
had  followed  her  streaming  hair  and  dimpled,  flying  feet 
across  the  downs.  She  found  the  path  almost  by  in- 
stinct. Her  hair  shook  loose  again,  dark  and  luxuriant;  it 
broke  over  her  eyes,  and  she  tossed  it  back  with  the  old 
25 


386  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

impetuous  movement  as  she  ran,  though  the  raw,  im- 
penetrable mist  made  everything  invisible.  She  took  no 
heed  of  the  deep  ruts  in  the  cliff,  the  broken  clay  and 
slipping  clete;  the  rumour  of  the  near  sea  guided  her; 
keeping  within  sound  of  that,  she  would  reach  Whit- 
stable 

And  then? 

Running  on  breathlessly,  she  pictured  her  arrival— 
the  startled  looks  of  Dodson  and  his  wife — the  stammered 
request — what  should  she  say?  Oh,  if  only  the  reins 
were  in  her  hand,  her  foot  in  stirrup!  If  the  stout  little 
cob  were  only  beneath  her  now,  while  the  minutes  flew 
so  quickly!  In  her  brain  seemed  the  thud,  thud,  thud  of 
the  old  mare's  hoofs  on  the  road  to  gaol  and  death.  Speed! 
speed!  speed!  Oh,  this  halting,  stumbling,  footsore  chase! 
Her  breast  heaved;  her  knees  trembled;  and,  sobbing 
as  she  ran,  she  realised  that  the  husband  she  had  loved 
at  first,  and  lost  during  these  few  months,  had  come  again 
— only  to  leave  her.  He  had  proved  himself,  by  this  last 
sacrifice,  the  man  she  had  once  idolised.  No  more  a  craven 
sheltering  himself  behind  another,  no  more  one  struggling 
against  conscience,  he  had  spared  her  to  the  last,  and 
then  gone,  bravely,  unflinchingly,  to  his  death.  But  he 
must  not  die.  It  was  an  accident,  she  knew,  but  if  the 
law  demanded  any  victim — as  it  would — she  knew  it 
would — he  must  not  die.  She  could  not  spare  him  before 
when  she  thought  he  would  accept  his  brother's  life;  a 
thousand  times  less  could  she  spare  him  now.  The  thought 
of  her  lie  to  save  him  had  now  an  added  bitterness.  If 
he  reached  Maidstone — if  he  gave  himself  up — the  long 
and  guilty  silence  would  take  away  the  last  chance  of 
proving  her  father's  death  an  accident.  She  must  find 
him — she  must  find  him,  and  use  all  her  arts,  her  persuasion, 
her  strength — most  of  all  her  weakness — to  deter  him 
from  his  purpose. 


RUNNING   HORSE   INN  387 

But  he  would  reach  Maidstone.  With  terrible  per- 
sistence, as  she  stumbled  on  blindly  through  the  mist, 
that  thought  grew  into  a  conviction,  not  to  be  shaken  off. 
Her  first  impulse  to  save  him  had  laughed  at  impossi- 
bilities. A  love  so  great,  so  compelling,  must  break  down 
all  obstacles,  even  of  space  and  time.  But  the  physical 
effort  to  reach  Whitstable  brought  facts  before  her  in  all 
their  cruelty  and  coldness.  If  he  had  had  only  half  an 
hour's  start — an  hour's,  perhaps — and  she  the  swift- 
footed  little  steed  under  her  at  once,  old  Blossom  and  her 
rider  might  have  been  ridden  down.  But  now?  The  mist 
seemed  to  clutch  at  her  throat.  Her  eyes  smarted;  chok- 
ing sobs,  not  to  be  restrained,  shook  her  frame  as  she  ran 
on  and  on. 

Still  she  staggered  on,  blindly,  unthinkingly,  save  for 
the  maddening,  despairing  thought  that  John  was  ahead 
of  her,  riding  to  his  death;  staggered  on  hopelessly,  but 
desperately,  frantic  with  grief  at  the  wreck  of  all  their 
happiness. 

Three  hours  later,  when  the  mist  had  cleared  away, 
leaving  glorious  summer  daylight  in  its  place,  some  children 
from  Hampton  came  laughing  down  the  shingle  to  bathe 
in  the  sea  that  was  now  all  sparkling  blue.  They  stripped, 
and  splashed  for  twenty  golden  minutes,  shouting  for  joy 
in  the  salt  and  sunshine,  under  the  blue  dome  of  sky. 
One  boy,  glowing  from  the  bath,  with  the  glistening  drops 
on  him  like  beads,  raced  down  the  sands,  for  the  sun  and 
exercise  to  dry  him.  He  stopped  near  the  cliffs  with  a 
startled  cry,  and  the  others  came  running,  and  then 
clustered  round  him,  frightened  and  suddenly  silenced. 

One  of  them  flung  on  his  clothes  hastily,  and  raced  to 
the  preventive  station  with  his  great  news  quivering  on 
his  tongue.  Craddock  was  there,  and  Captain  Rockett, 
who  had  gone  over  at  Delilah's  request  to  see  the  riding 
officer.  They  hurried  down  to  the  beach. 


388  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

Bess  lay  there,  at  the  foot  of  the  cliffs,  with  her  dark 
hair  free  as  in  girlhood;  her  face  marble-white,  but  very 
beautiful  and  strangely  young.  Her  eyes  were  wide  open, 
staring  at  the  blue  sky  in  which  a  lark  was  singing,  though 
the  blindness  of  the  mist  clouded  them  still. 

The  men  bent  over  her;  touched  her  gently.  There 
was  to  be  no  more  waking. 

Up  above,  two  white  butterflies  fluttered  from  the 
grasses  at  the  cliff's  edge.  In  the  summer  air  insects  droned 
and  boomed;  and  a  man  was  whistling  at  his  work  among 
the  corn. 

Rockett  and  Craddock  exchanged  glances,  and  half 
shook  their  heads. 

"Poor  little  lass!"  said  Rockett,  gulping.  "Poor  little 
lass!" 

Behind  them,  the  little  boys  waited  awestruck. 

With  a  gentle,  trembling  hand,  Captain  Rockett  closed 
the  lids  with  their  dark,  long  lashes — shutting  out  the 
land  with  its  trees  and  waving  grasses;  shutting  out  the 
smiling  sea  and  gallant  ships;  shutting  out  all  this  world's 
colour  and  brightness;  shutting  out  all  its  sorrow  for  ever. 

Her  spirit  was  not  there:  had  it  entered  the  jewelled 
gates  of  John's  Apocalypse?  Was  it  reaching  the  quiet 
and  peaceful  anchorage  in  Captain  Rockett's  thoughts, 
with  sunrise  gilding  trees  and  hills  of  a  new  but  not  un- 
friendly country,  and  quays  where  smiling  faces  wait  to 
welcome  newcomers,  and  lead  them  up  the  hill  to  the 
house  of  God? 

Her  spirit  was  not  there — but  those  knotted  fingers 
that  closed  the  eyes,  still  so  young,  closed  them  as  if  the 
last  touch  of  grief  and  friendship  were  a  sacrament.  All 
this  busy,  striving,  suffering,  rejoicing  world  he  was  shut- 
ting out;  to  leave  her  alone,  it  seemed,  with  God. 

Craddock  went  off  slowly  to  the  station,  while  Rockett 
waited.  In  her  little  hand,  John's  last  note,  in  the  round, 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  389 

laboured,  schoolboy  lettering,  was  still  tightly  clenched. 
Rockett's  faded  blue  eyes  brimmed  over,  and  the  slow 
tears  rolled  down  his  tanned  and  wrinkled  cheeks.  Near 
at  hand,  the  sea,  changeless  yet  ever  changing,  moaned 
a  drowsy  requiem. 

They  carried  her,  very  slowly,  on  a  shutter  brought 
from  the  station,  back  to  the  Running  Horse.  Mrs.  Rockett 
came  in,  to  help  Delilah,  red-eyed  now  with  weeping; 
and  from  the  farm,  soon  afterwards,  Mrs.  Huntingdon 
joined  the  sorrowful  little  party  at  the  inn. 

She  was  laid  on  the  bed  where,  not  many  hours  before, 
John  and  she  had  been  side  by  side,  sad  and  wakeful, 
dreading  the  morning  that  was  about  to  break. 

In  the  parlour,  where  John's  slippers  and  her  little 
empty  shoes  stood  side  by  side,  and  last  night's  pipe, 
half  choked  with  ash,  lay  on  the  spinet  where  it  had  been 
put  when  her  song  ended,  the  mourners  sat  and  talked  in 
whispers  because  of  the  dead  girl — who  would  hear  no  more 
voices  or  music  in  this  world  for  ever. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  minute's  silence  on  the  Heath,  while  the  callous 
business  of  the  execution  was  transacting,  broke  at 
last,  like  the  crash  of  gathered  waters.  A  half-shuddering 
gasp  ran  through  the  vast  a-tiptoe  throng;  they  began 
to  whisper,  to  chat  aloud — a  few  to  shout.  The  crowd, 
wedged  so  closely,  opened  out,  split  into  knots,  and  sent 
off  little  companies  of  the  less  curious  to  all  parts  of  the 
Heath.  Some  took  the  road  to  Bearsted,  passing  John 
by  without  notice.  Had  he  shouted?  Had  the  framed 
words  not  found  breath  enough  to  reach  even  the  nearest 
ears?  He  did  not  know.  Even  now,  he  was  gasping  for 
air  after  his  long  run.  It  seemed  that,  either  through  the 
passing  impotence  of  his  voice,  or  the  fascination  of  the 
scene  that  had  fixed  all  eyes  and  all  thoughts,  he  had  been 
unnoticed.  And  George  was  dead. 

A  feeling  of  incredulity  possessed  him  at  first.  Every- 
thing had  happened  so  quickly,  so  suddenly.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  a  life  made  up  of  so  many  days  and  nights, 
so  many  thoughts  and  deeds,  should  have  ended  abruptly 
in  such  a  tiny  space  of  time.  Speech,  sight,  hearing, 
touch — all  the  senses  and  emotions,  and  the  strength  which 
so  many  years  had  ministered  to — had  been  swung  into 
nothingness  and  darkness  in  the  holding  of  a  breath. 
The  hurry  of  the  last  catastrophe,  after  so  many  leisurely 
years,  left  him  confused,  astounded. 

Many  of  the  people  still  pressed  around  the  gibbet, 
and  were  kept  back  by  the  javelin-men  and  officials.  A 
great  part  of  the  crowd  swarmed  over,  talking  and  ges- 
ticulating, to  the  Bull  Inn  across  the  Heath;  still  more 
streamed  back  along  the  Maidstone  road.  John  glanced 
round  him,  at  the  solemn  darkness  of  the  pines,  and  the 

390 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  391 

stretch  of  common  dotted  with  hurrying  men;  but  he 
tried  to  keep  his  eyes  from  that  dread  focus.  There  was 
no  use  in  waiting.  Where  the  crime  was  murder,  the 
law  retained  the  body  of  the  condemned  even  in  death. 
His  errand  was  over;  he  had  failed.  Dejectedly,  he  fol- 
lowed the  groups  who  took  the  Maidstone  road. 

His  one  thought  now  was  home — home  to  Bess;  and 
in  Maidstone  he  would  find  some  conveyance,  no  doubt, 
to  help  him  on  his  way.  His  throat  was  parched,  and 
he  entered  a  hostelry  in  the  High  Street  for  a  glass  of  ale; 
he  had  no  appetite  for  food.  Bright  summer  sunshine 
flecked  the  street,  and  brought  out  the  colour  of  old  houses 
and  swinging  signs.  Here  and  there  the  winds  had  tossed 
into  little  heaps  the  strewings  of  straw  that  had  been  used, 
during  the  assizes,  to  deaden  the  sound  of  traffic.  In  the 
broad  street  were  ranged,  side  by  side,  a  dozen  or  so  of 
little  hooded  waggons,  some  with  horses  harnessed  to  them, 
most  with  the  shafts  up-tilted.  On  each  carrier's  cart 
was  a  board  with  the  name  of  its  destination  in  gaily  painted 
scroll-work.  One  cart  was  going  shortly  to  Faversham, 
and  he  bargained  with  the  driver  for  a  lift.  He  waited 
impatiently  for  the  start.  Home!  Home!  It  was  the 
one  burden  of  his  thoughts. 

They  started  at  last;  the  driver  was  taciturn,  fortunately, 
and  devoted  most  of  his  attention  to  his  horses.  He  made 
one  reference  to  the  execution,  asking  John  gruffly  if  he 
had  seen  it. 

"Yes,"  said  John,  reluctantly. 

"I  thoft  so.  Reckon  it's  turned  your  stomach  a  bit, 
to  look  at  your  face.  Died  game,  didn't  he?" 

"Yes." 

Died  game?  Why,  he  had  died  like  a  conqueror — 
like  a  General  going  into  action,  as  one  said  of  old  Lord 
Bal merino — nothing  in  life  fitting  him  so  well  as  the 
leaving  it.  The  thrown-back  head,  the  face  changing 


392  RUNNING  HORSE  INN 

from  sudden  gloom  and  resentment  to  decision  and  calm 
happiness — that  momentary  glance,  before  the  crowd 
strained  forward,  would  remain  in  his  brother's  mind  till 
life's  ending.  The  minute  fraught  with  so  much  had  been 
fraught  with  a  great  resolution,  a  noble  sacrifice.  John 
remembered,  when  they  were  little  boys  long  back,  how 
his  father's  sternness  would  gain  nothing  from  George  but 
sullen  rebellion  and  defiance,  while  a  single  word  of  kind- 
ness, his  mother's  loving  hand  and  smiling  voice  checking 
his  outbursts,  would  melt  him  to  submission,  almost  to 
tears.  John  read  everything  that  had  passed  through 
his  brother's  mind  at  that  last  minute.  He  had  gone  to 
his  death  hardened,  desperate,  meaning  with  his  last 
breath,  in  his  last  speech  to  the  crowd,  to  throw  all  the 
guilt,  bitterly  and  falsely,  on  his  brother.  He  had  gone 
to  his  death  resenting  the  cruelty  and  blindness  of  men, 
the  cruelty  and  injustice  of  God. 

And  then,  as  his  lips  were  opened,  he  had  seen  John 
hurrying  across  the  Heath — and  guessed  his  errand. 

This  broke  him  down.  Love,  or  the  sacrifice,  broke 
him  down.  Who  could  tell  what  great  transaction  passed 
at  that  moment  between  George  Kennett  and  his  Maker? 
In  that  moment  he  had  the  choice  between  life  and  death. 
He  could  accept  the  substitution;  he  could  reject  it. 
He  chose — and  chose  death. 

All  that  restless  ambition,  all  that  vague  longing,  had 
been  satisfied.  Not  in  war,  not  in  revolt,  had  he  been  set 
high  above  his  fellows — the  object  of  all  eyes.  But  there, 
on  the  scaffold,  with  the  summer  sky  above  him,  the  sum- 
mer wind  singing  in  the  pines,  he  had  drawn  for  one  little 
space  the  eyes  of  assembled  thousands — and  had  acted 
a  part  finer,  nobler,  than  any  dreamed. 

As  the  carrier's  van  creaked  its  way  back  towards 
Faversham,  John  began  to  feel  the  peace  denied  him 
when  he  had,  still  grudgingly,  resolved  to  obey  the 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  393 

imperious  order  of  his  heart.  Circumstances  had  frustrated 
his  intention;  the  last  cup  of  bitterness  had  been  taken 
from  his  lips;  but  he  began  to  thank  God,  very  fervently, 
that  he  had  resolved  and  endeavoured.  His  suffering 
and  Bess's,  his  long  and  terrible  ride,  had  not  been  fruitless. 
He  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse  now  of  the  inner  working 
of  universal  laws.  Things  more  tremendous  than  the 
snatching  of  life  from  death  for  a  season  had  hung  upon 
his  decision.  It  was  his  coming  that  had  robbed  George's 
death  of  bitterness  and  impenitence,  and  his  own  surrender 
had  led  to  that  supreme  moment  of  renunciation  and  self- 
sacrifice  in  which  so  much  that  was  grasping  and  wrong 
and  wilful  had  been  swallowed  up. 

John  watched  the  slow  passing  of  hop-fields  and  corn- 
fields and  sheep-dotted  meadows;  he  saw  the  sleepy  Kentish 
villages  with  their  inns,  and  grey  churches  clustered  round 
by  quiet  graves;  he  saw  the  women  in  the  sun  at  their 
cottage  doors,  the  children  playing  in  the  fields,  the  men 
at  their  round  of  work.  But  he  saw  all  now  with  new  eyes. 
No  longer  heavens  of  brass  cooped  in  slaves  toiling  in 
misery  and  blindness — with  no  aim  or  end.  God  was; 
and  God  was  good.  Seen  dimly,  through  suffering — but 
still  seen — was  the  great  Father  of  all,  too  great  to  be  held 
by  any  creed,  to  be  shut  within  any  book,  or  ark,  or  shrine 
—in  all  these,  yet  greater  than  all — working  silently  and 
mysteriously  in  the  hearts  of  men.  Sin  brought  its  penal- 
ties, bitter  and  terrible;  but  even  from  the  refuse,  from 
corruption,  good  was  wrought  at  last,  as,  in  the  fields, 
corn  and  wine  and  flowers  come  from  changed  pollution. 

He  left  the  van  at  Faversham,  and  started  to  walk  home- 
wards. Home!  Home!  He  would  tell  Bess  all — every- 
thing, now.  All  things  had  worked  together  for  good. 
If  he  were  to  blame  for  leaving  his  decision  so  late,  he  had 
yet  decided  in  time  had  not  the  eternal  purpose  ordered 
otherwise;  he  begged  forgiveness  for  what  was  wrong, 


394  RUNNING   HORSE   INN 

and,  feeling  pardon,  pardoned  himself  likewise.  The  sad- 
ness of  the  morning's  tragedy  seemed  robbed  of  its  gloom 
and  pain  by  the  manner  of  his  brother's  death.  All  his 
hatred,  all  his  resentment,  all  thought  of  their  dissensions, 
passed  away,  and  left  only  chastened  memories — memo- 
ries sad,  but  not  harsh  or  poignant,  of  the  days  of  child- 
hood; of  their  summers  by  the  sea;  of  the  long  winter 
nights  when  they  cuddled  together  in  their  little  flannel 
nightgowns;  of  the  days  when  George  and  Bess  and  he 
had  lived  and  worked  together  at  the  inn,  after  the  wars. 

He  stepped  out  briskly  along  the  white  roads  under- 
neath the  trees,  each  yard  taking  him  nearer  home.  The 
journey  in  the  morning  mist,  when  he  had  seemed  caught 
by  fate  in  a  terrible  trap  from  which  even  death  might 
not  deliver  him,  seemed  like  a  nightmare.  He  had  longed, 
like  Swift,  for  some  hole  in  the  universe  to  creep  out  of 
and  be  at  rest.  Now  his  spirits  rose,  in  the  reaction  after 
all  his  sufferings,  to  a  great  and  yet  solemn  joy.  How 
good  the  world  was!  With  all  its  sorrow,  all  its  pain, 
how  much  men  had  to  thank  their  Maker  for,  that  He  had 
set  them  in  a  world  so  wonderful,  and  given  them  their 
share  in  a  scheme  so  perfect,  so  fascinating — perhaps  so 
endless.  He  had  his  birthright  of  life — his  title  to  all  ex- 
perience, not  only  here,  perhaps,  but  in  a  thousand  thou- 
sand worlds,  all  wonderful  and  beautiful  as  this. 

Faith!  Faith!  Preached  so  often,  cloaked  in  so  many 
garbs  by  men  seeing  dimly,  what  a  meaning  it  gave  to 
life  and  death!  "Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  Him," 
his  heart  sang.  But  God  had  not  demanded  his  life. 
Many  years  stretched  before  him;  peaceful,  happy  life 
like  a  summer's  day,  which  at  last  should  draw  on  softly 
into  twilight  and  evening.  Bess  would  be  with  him, 
sharing  the  sorrows  that  must  come — but  would  have  their 
meaning  and  their  use — sharing  the  joys  which  outnumber 
human  sorrows,  and  helping  him  to  serve  their  day  and 


RUNNING  HORSE  INN  395 

generation.  At  last,  when  one  was  taken,  it  would  be  but 
like  a  child  going  sleepy-eyed  to  bed  a  little  before  another. 
Under  the  grass  and  daisies  they  would  lie  together  at 
last,  with  the  sea-winds  in  the  trees  above  them,  and  they 
could  leave  the  place  and  hour  of  waking  to  the  Father 
whom  they  had  loved  and  trusted  and  not  found  wanting. 

Home!  Home!  Home!  Each  step  beat  the  refrain. 
Soon  he  would  clasp  her  to  him  again,  all  misunderstand- 
ing, all  secrets  explained  and  revealed;  they  would  mourn 
together  for  the  one  whose  better  self  had  triumphed 
finally  in  death;  they  would  enjoy  together;  they  would 
shut  the  doors  again,  as  so  many  times  before,  shutting 
out  the  world  as  if  their  wedded  life  were  but  beginning. 

There  was  the  sea  at  last,  smiling  to  welcome  him. 
Home!  Home! 

The  uneven  line  of  cottages  and  houses,  with  their  roofs 
of  warm  reds  and  soft  russets  crusted  with  grey  and  yellow 
lichen,  fronted  the  blue  water  and  the  long  stretch  of 
shingle;  white  sails  glinted  in  the  sun  on  the  horizon; 
the  arms  of  the  mill  creaked  round  against  the  unclouded 
summer  sky;  he  saw  the  hanging  sign,  the  painted  horse 
blistered  with  heat,  white  with  dust  and  salt — he  saw  the 
jutting  windows  and  coloured  blinds — the  door  of  home. 

He  came  to  the  inn. 

THE    END 


THE    VORTEX 

BY  THOMAS  McKEAN 


J2mo.     Decorated  Cloth,  $1,50 


The  love-story  is  laid  in  Italy,  and  has  to  do  with 
the  battle  of  two  personalities.  The  leading  characters 
are  drawn  with  a  firmness  and  skill  that  will  interest 
every  reader. 

' '  Mr.  McKean  gets  enviably  far  away 
from  the  smart  novel  that  has  the  divorce 
court  as  its  finale  and  the  trite  conclusion. 
A  powerful  moral  novel,  .  .  .  that  has 
little  to  do  with  the  frivolities." 

—  Washington    Club  Fellow, 


THE    CHALLONERS 

BY  E.  F.  BENSON. 


i2mo.      Cloth,  $1.50 


' '  When  we  remembered  that  E.  F. 
Benson  was  the  author  of  '  Dodo, '  a 
book  about  which  every  one  was  talking 
a  few  years  ago,  we  expected  to  find  that 
he  had  given  us  something  pretty  good 
in  '  The  Challoners. '  We  read  it,  breath- 
lessly and  absorbedly,  and  then  we  were 
of  the  opinion  that  he  had  given  us  a 
novel  that  is  better  than  the  book  which 
made  him  famous." 

— Newark  Adertiser. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA 


THE   IMAGE   IN    THE   SAND 

A  Love-Story  Dealing  with  the  Occult. 
BY  E.   F.  BENSON 


izmo.      Cloth,  $1.50 


' '  The  Image  in  the  Sand  "  is  a  book  that  will  en- 
tertain every  novel-reader  and  provoke  discussion.  It 
speaks  emphatically  for  the  development  of  Mr. 
Benson's  powers  as  a  writer,  though  it  also  emphasizes 
that  lightness  of  touch  and  happy  faculty  for  sketching 
character  in  outline  which  have  marked  his  several 
former  books. 

1 '  Spiritualism,  hypnotism,  demoniac 
possession,  white  and  black  magic, 
Oriental  theosophy — all  are  found  among 
the  component  parts  of  this  tale.  The 
denouement  is  decidedly  original  and 
highly  imaginative.  Decidedly,  'The 
Image  in  the  Sand '  will  not  fail  to  make 
a  strong  appeal  to  every  one  who  has  any 
.  love  for  the  marvellous  and  the  unknown 
— or  who  appreciates  a  very  well-written 
story." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

' '  The  author  of  '  Dodo '  has  written  a 
4  thriller. '  It  is  a  spiritualistic  story.  Mr. 
Benson  sets  part  of  his  story  in  the  East, 
and  part  in  London,  and  tells  it  in  a 
manner  to  keep  the  reader  wide  awake 
and  interested  to  the  end. ' ' 

—  Globe,  N.    Y. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA 


THE  ISSUE 

By  GEORGE  MORGAN 

Illustrated.     Cloth,  $1.50 


"Will  stand  prom- 
inently forth  as  the 
strongest  book  that 
the  season  has  given 
us.  The  novel  is  a 
brilliant  one,  and 
will  command  wide 
attention. ' ' — Phila- 
delphia Public  Led- 
ger. 

"  The  love  story 
running  through  the 
book  is  very  tender 
and  sweet. ' '  — St. 
Paul  Despatch. 

"  Po,  a  sweet,  lov- 
able heroine."  — 
The  Milwaukee 
Sentinel. 

"Such  novels  as 
'  The  Issue'  are  rare 
upon  any  theme.  It 
is  a  work  that  must 
have  cost  tremen- 
dous toil,  a  master- 
piece. 1 1  is  superior 
to  ' The  Crisis.'"— 
Pittsburg  Gazette. 

"The  best  novel 
of  the  Civil  War 
that  we  have  had. ' ' 
— Baltimore  Sun. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA. 


THE  HOUSEHOLD  OF  PETER 

BY  ROSA  NOUCHETTE  CAREY 


izmo.      Cloth,  $1.50 


Perhaps  no  woman  now  writing  has  proven  so 
generally  popular  among  young  women  as  Miss  Carey, 
and  all  that  need  be  said  of  her  new  book  is  that  it  will 
realize  every  expectation  aroused  by  "A  Passage 
Perilous ' '  and  ' '  The  Highway  of  Fate. ' ' 

1 '  For  girls  who  have  outgrown  childish 
literature  Miss  Carey's  books  are  most 
desirable.  They  give  wholesome  and  pure 
views  of  life  in  a  very  interesting  and  en- 
tertaining manner." — Portland  Press. 

"Miss  Carey '  s  latest  book  is  along  the 
lines  that  have  already  made  her  beloved 
by  thousands  of  readers.  A  spirited 
story  of  intense  human  interest. ' ' 

— The  Bookseller ;    Chicago. 

' '  A  pretty  romance  that,  like  all  of  its 
predecessors,  may  be  characterized  as 
sweet  and  wholesome.  The  story  is 
written  in  Miss  Carey's  own  pleasant, 
restful  style,  and  is  one  of  her  best. ' ' 

— Louisville  Courier-Journal. 


J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA 


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